**You'd think because my professors are old and don't know how to work the internet that they'd lay off the workload while in quarantine but no. They had the audacity to assign more than what they originally planned. So that's my excuse as to why this chapter is two months late. (Not sick, just bitter.) Stay healthy, mon amis!**

After winning the confidence of Charles the Dauphin, Jeanne thought she'd be on her way to Orléans immediately, but she soon came to realize that she hadn't won him completely. His councilors managed to convince him that an inspection was necessary. Just like at Vaucouleurs, priests and women were brought in to determine her religion, virginity, and even her gender. She was annoyed, yes, but was willing to go through with it, for she knew that Charles would eventually grant her an army to take to Orléans, thanks to her voices.

Obeying Charles's orders, Francis lingered by her side as often as he could. Although he backed away when some of the castle's women checked for her womanhood, he watched another exorcism performed on her and even chuckled when she jokingly told one of the priests, "If I were a witch, I would've hopped on my broom and flew away, which would be much faster versus how long you're taking." (The priest did not appreciate her comment, however.) She was thankful for Francis's presence, but what made her happier was the deep interest he now carried whenever she spoke of God, her voices, or her mission. He became serious and didn't bombard her with unnecessary questions and annoying judgements. He hung onto her every word; trust—and even perhaps the love of God—was now forming in his heart, and she beamed at his slow recovery to internal faith.

After all, that alone was going get them through the war.

Once Charles was satisfied with the unwanted examinations that ended up being extended over a few days' time, Jeanne and Francis were allowed another meeting with His Highness and his royal advisors (she wasn't looking forward to conversing with them if they were going to be anything like her first meeting with the Dauphin). She planned to ask for an army, battle armor, and Charles's permission to do whatever was necessary to throw the English out of Orléans. Not a sliver of anxiety or uncertainty hovered over her thoughts, for as long as the Lord was with her, she could do anything.

Apparently, several of the Dauphin's men (including advisors, soldiers, servants, and messengers) were still suspicious of her, so guards had to escort her from place to place. Francis—God protect him—kindly offered to accompany her around the castle, considering he was supposed to be following her anyway, but he was regarded with the same skepticism as she. A tight knot constricted in the pit of her stomach once she learned this—how dare they treat their country's personification with such disrespect! She would throw sharpened glares at them, suspecting them to be Burgundians with the amount of stupidity they carried.

One day, she and Francis were guided through the dimly lit corridors of the château de Chinon to attend the promised conference with the dauphin. Francis seemed to be in a much better mood now rather than the one he was in a couple days ago; in fact, he was the most alive she'd ever seen him. He wasn't jumping around with joy nor chatting a million words a minute, not even close. He was still quiet, still hesitant in his footsteps, but his shoulders seemed relaxed, his gaze was aimed straight ahead instead of at the ground, and when he smiled at her, it wasn't plastered on or stretched at the corners by invisible hooks. It now came naturally, and it was beautiful.

She was staring up at him, painfully aware of the heavy bags and terrible scars on his face. Her eyes, however, traced his sharp jawline, the gentle curl of his hair, the many shades of blue in his irises, his long straight nose. They rested on his lips, on his exposed teeth and inflamed gums. She wished he would look at her and smile, so she could see the genuine kindness behind it again.

She ended up staring for too long because her feet trailed off course and stepped on the toes of the soldier beside her; she bumped her shoulder into his bicep, the skittering and clanking of the mishap ringing around them.

"Excusez-moi," she muttered as she stumbled away. The soldier hardly casted a glance her way, but she caught Francis peeking with a sly smirk, suggesting he knew that she was staring at him the entire time.

Embarrassed, she averted her eyes. She didn't want to see that sort of smile.

They eventually arrived at a chamber much smaller than the throne room. A long wooden table sat in the middle of the chamber with ten wooden chairs surrounding it, four on the lengths and one on the widths. Burning candles hung from the iron chandelier above the table—the extra light was needed, for the room's only window offered winter's smoky grey skies and the sprinkling of tiny white flakes. Fortunately, a fireplace resided on the left side of the chamber, its warmth already making its way toward the newcomers.

Charles, who was fully dressed in appropriate royal attire (excluding a crown, of course), rested at the head of the table. His advisors filled in around him, leaving the other end open. They were also clothed nicely. Some were older, wrinkles clouding their eyes and outlining their cheekbones, while others were as young and smooth-skinned as the Dauphin. They merely stared at Jeanne with expressionless faces once she entered the room, yet Charles smiled kindly, warming her heart in the process.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle d'Arc," the Dauphin welcomed. He gestured towards the chair across from him. "Please have a seat."

Jeanne curtseyed before complying. "Thank you."

As Francis quietly took his place beside Jeanne and the two soldiers station themselves by the closed door, their long sharp spears gripped tightly in their hands, Charles introduced his council members to her; she tried her best to remember their names.

"Now, Mademoiselle d'Arc—"

"You can call me Jeanne, if it suits you."

Charles nodded once, a slight smile still hovering over his thin lips. "Now, Jeanne…" He knitted his fingers together. "Do you know why you are here?"

She nodded back. "Some are suspicious of my intentions and want to know whether they can trust me or not. But I believe a better question is: do you know why you are here, dear Dauphin?"

She sensed the men around her stiffen, but she kept her gaze trained on Charles's puzzled face.

"What do you mean?"

"I know you have confidence in me, my Dauphin, enough to send me to Orléans right this minute, yet you still called this meeting to order, probably for the sake of your advisors. You have the most power here—why don't you use this precious time and deliver me to Orléans before even more damage can be done."

"Well, we want to make sure that this plan would be the best for France," said the man sitting next to her. Jeanne looked at him—his muddy brown hair was styled like hers but longer and a red cap slouched atop his head. She believed his name was Jacques Coeur.

"The English are rapidly gaining the upper hand in this war," he continued, "and the Burgundians are growing closer with the enemy. Our situation is desperate, yes, but we must think rationally and plan carefully. We don't want the people and Sieur France to…suffer more than they already have."

"Sieur France shares the same opinion of my abilities. Go on and ask him of the things he's seen."

"Yet Sieur France has been unreliable for a long time now," replied another advisor, who sat on Charles's right. This man had wide facial features with a notable scar on his chin. Jeanne recalled the Dauphin calling him Arthur de Richemont, Constable of Brittany—"and a very useful military commander," Charles had mention as well.

"He's been wandering around, doing whatever the hell he wants," de Richemont spoke of Francis bitterly, "instead of staying by His Highness's side and boldly fighting for his cause. We don't know where he's been nor do we know what he's been doing, thus we cannot fully trust what he'll say."

Jeanne felt the familiar twisting of her gut, her temper tumbling around inside her. "How can one know what is best for his country without listening to what he has to say?"

"Quiet down now," Charles mumbled to the table, shifting through some documents before him. "You'll all have your opportunity to speak your mind." He sighed quietly and then looked back up at Jeanne, studying her expression, constructing his inquires. She attempted her best to appear as authoritative as possible—she raised her chin, straightened her posture, tried not to blink.

He paused for a moment longer before asking, "When was the first time God spoke to you?"

"The Lord sent Saint Michael the Archangel to pass on a message to me when I was thirteen years of age, though I wouldn't receive my mission for another three years."

"What did he say?"

"That I must continue my Christian duties like obeying my parents and attending mass, all of which I still honor. I presume that God was testing my worth for this mission."

Charles glanced to the side thoughtfully, yet she heard one of the councilors stifled a chuckle. Her head whipped toward the sound and then she snapped, "You'll have the opportunity to ask God Himself sooner rather than later if we don't act now! We're sitting ducks, waiting to be slaughtered by our enemies, the English and ourselves!"

"And what makes you think that you would know better than us?" retorted de Richemont again; Jeanne turned her attention back to him. "We've all been fighting this war our entire lives, as have our fathers and their fathers. We've seen things that not even your worse dreams could accurately portray. Experience and knowledge weigh heavy upon our belts, which is what has brought us here together—we're qualified to make important decisions. So, I ask again, what makes you think that you would know better than us?"

The knot in her stomach tightened as he rambled on: "You can't read or write, you don't know any English, you have no experience in military strategy nor how to wield weapons or properly use a warhorse. You are a teenage girl who's trying to do a man's job; a woman does not possess the physical and mental strength to endure the horrors of war. You are just a farm girl and this is not the place for you. And these visions of God make me fear that another Children's Crusade may be among us."[1]

Jeanne nearly jumped out of her chair at the sudden tug of anger in her gut. "It is because you refuse the word of Jesus Christ that has brought you here! You failed to recognize your own sins and learn from them—so have your fathers and their fathers. History is repeating itself, time and time again, all because you're letting fear control your minds; you're too afraid to change anything in order to save yourselves."

She turned to Francis. He was already staring at her, those blue orbs as deep and passionate as a summer night sky. Her vision blurred as she studied the horrendous markings of war on his body, in his soul. She couldn't even begin to imagine what exactly caused these traumas that should've healed long ago; she shuddered at the story of how he almost lost both arms.

She blinked away any upcoming tears and then peered at the expressionless faces around her. "How can you keep doing this to him?" she whimpered, motioning to the broken man beside her. "How long must he suffer at the hands of his own people? If he dies, we all die. He is the most important thing to protect right now and you're regarding him as a total stranger! Must we ask who is really killing France: the English or the French?"

A councilor with lightning blue eyes slammed a fist onto the table. "That is enough from you!" he bellowed just as Charles barked, "Moreau, please! Silence yourself!"

All council members turned to gawk at the Dauphin. They began to protest all at once, yet Jeanne could only comprehend what Coeur was saying (considering she was sitting right next to him): "Your Highness, we need to consider the risks before taking such a desperate jump into the unknown. The girl is upset due to the effects of war—her village was probably ransacked which has rendered her mind fragile—and we shouldn't yield to her mad ways. Send her back home; don't let her fool you! What did she say to you behind that closed door anyway—?"

"Silence yourselves, I say!" Charles yelled into the void of discord, that great, tangled mass of mind-controlling tongues that often won such arguments.

The Dauphin glared at his advisors until their shouts lowered into mumblings and their mumblings lower into muteness. He then growled in a voice that Jeanne wouldn't have expect from such a soft-spoken man: "I may not be king, but I do possess the most power in this chamber, in this château, in this entire region, thus I get the final say in all matters."

It seemed more like he was saying these things for his own sake rather than for everyone else. He had a faraway look in his eyes and his clenched fists weren't as tight as they could be. Moreau, Coeur, de Richemont, and the other advisors gaped at him as though he never objected to anything before (even Francis appeared surprised).

"I get the final say," she heard him whisper to himself. He blinked back into existence, looked around the table before focusing on Francis on the other end. Jeanne noticed his walnut brown orbs shifting around, absorbing all the disfiguring wounds that riddled his country's body. Some time passed before Charles spoke again like the calm before the storm: "What have you seen, Sieur France?"

It came out as a broad question, but everyone knew what he meant. Jeanne turned toward Francis. His gaze had fallen to the table as all kinds of memories flashed before his eyes. "Mostly ugliness," he mumbled. "Rivers of blood and armies of hatred. This war has been dragging on for nearly a hundred years now, and it keeps getting worse the longer it goes on. Any Frenchman will tell you that he'd rather die by the plague than by the hands of an Englishman[2]—the disease would be quicker."

His gaze then drifted toward Jeanne, a brilliant spark shining in those beautiful eyes of his. Her heart pumped with pride for him as he spoke slowly yet surely of his growing confidence in her: "But so much has happened since I've encountered this little woman a month ago. She accurately predicted the end results of a battle before I had the chance to inform anybody about it. She not only recognized me at first sight, but Your Highness as well, when she had no prior knowledge of what we look like. She even raised the spirits of the soldiers, which I didn't believe to be possible anymore." He turned to Charles again. "Imagine how strong, how fearless our military would be under the command of d'Arc. The soldiers would be as powerful as Roman warriors and our policies would be as precise and true as…as…"

"As Jesus Christ himself," Jeanne finished for him.

She sensed his eyes on her again, but she now faced the Dauphin who was looking at her with the same easement as her country. "Through God's strength, I will free the people of Orléans and have you, my dear Dauphin, properly crowned at Reims. The Lord has commanded it, therefore it will be done."

Charles paused for a moment. "What earthly materials do you require in order to achieve your heavenly mission?"

"I will need an army, battle armor, and your permission to do whatever is necessary to throw the English out of Orléans. I already have the faith and love that will guide us to victory."

Charles's advisors were still doubtful and at once fell into another argument. Jeanne watched the Dauphin's face morph into a look of annoyance as if they were children bickering about utter nonsense. This went on for awhile; she stayed quiet, for she knew she would get what they needed.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Francis leaning toward her while his fingers lightly brushed against her own, which rested on the edge of the table. Her gaze lingered on his middle finger, the one with the missing fingernail, as he whispered into her ear, "Your prediction has come true once again: His Highness is going to give you your army."

Her eyes flicked up to his. He was closer than she thought—if she were to nod her head, they'd surely bump foreheads. His trust in her had grown significantly and it showed in the blueness of his eyes and in the curve of his lips. She smiled back, amused.

"I know."

A few days after Charles had completely disregarded his advisors' thoughts on the matter and granted Jeanne the position as first commander of the French army, she received her final requirement: her battle armor. She was measured for it and, while the blacksmith hammered away at the protective gear, royal seamstresses were kind enough to put together a couple of outfits for her, including a black velvet doublet with golden trim lining the edges and a light cloak that was the color of blueberries and ended around mid-thigh, meant for decoration rather than protection.

Jeanne was never one to be picky about her appearance (all beauty resided within the soul, after all), but, with these elegant garments on, she couldn't stop the sense of pride that swelled in her chest. She liked the way she looked; she walked with a purpose and stood with authority. But she tried not to let it bury itself too deeply in her mind, instead focusing on the preparation of Orléans.

She sensed something similar once she was properly fitted into her battle suit. It definitely took some time getting used to—it weighed heavy on her body like half a dozen wool cloaks and, because of this, she couldn't really move without the iron plates clanking against each other. It also was a lengthy process to put on and take off, for there were several different pieces that connected in several different places, an unnecessary and complicated puzzle.

One simply can't be stealthy in this attire, she frowned as she studied her reflection in the looking glass. But once she began peering around her, at the soldiers and generals stationed nearby, she felt another boost of self-esteem. Compared to their suits of armor, hers was the color of cloudy skies, but shone brightly in the morning light, free of any stains or dents. The chainmail dangled from the openings in her armor and she ran her fingers through it, the smooth, tiny rings slipping through her grasp. And when she put the helmet on and closed its visor, none could tell it was her. She looked just like everybody else and she felt much safer that way.

When questioned what kind of sword the blacksmith should construct for her, she shook her head and explained that there was one already prepared—she just needed it retrieved. Unsurprisingly, their expressions twisted in confusion, asking her what she meant. She went on: there was a sword buried behind the altar in the church of Saint Catherine de Fierbois. There should be five crosses on the handle, she told them, and don't worry about the rust—it should come right off.

De Richemont frowned at this as if he were a dog that smelled something foul. He didn't believe her obviously, yet he volunteered to travel to the church to recover said sword. A couple of soldiers offered to go with the general (probably to experience her prophecy first-hand). They came back to the château about two hours later; they didn't need to see the sword wrapped in a sheet of cloth to know they found it—their faces said it all.

De Richemont cradled the five-crossed, rust-free weapon in his hands as if it were a blooming flower in the middle of a snowy field. His stare lingered and when his eyes met Jeanne's, she saw no shift in expression and knew that she'd won him over. He handed the sword over and then saluted. "I'll gladly follow you into battle, Commander d'Arc," he declared in that same tone he used to speak against her a mere day ago. Jeanne saluted back and thanked him for his faith in her.

Being a military commander gave her the power to bestow legitimate occupations onto others, so, naturally, she promoted her friends, the happy few she could fully trust. She granted Louis the role of a scribe—considering he was the only one of the group with the gift of literacy, she believed it would be beneficial if he could write letters for her. He humbly accepted her request and she thanked him kindly. He has such a timid and thoughtful soul, she thought, which is why he is perfect for the job: he can speak on paper when words aloud fail him.

So, she gave him his first job to write up a letter to the English, as a warning to leave France before she sent herself and her army to Orléans to forcefully remove them. Louis sat quietly as he scribbled down whatever she said. She paced back and forth, recollecting what the Lord told her to do and feeling the passion of Christ and of France coursing through her bloodstream. Louis read her words back to her—they were short and straight to the point, but also carried the firm fortitude she wanted to express.

With Louis's help, she signed the letter as "Jehanne la Pucelle".[3]

She nodded, had Louis seal it with a fleur-de-lis, and brought the letter to her other soldier-in-the-making.

She anointed Noël as her personal messenger. She had seen him at training—he wasn't much of a fighter, but, as a messenger, he didn't need to be. He was quick and slippery and blunt, everything she would require of him. She knew she could trust him with bringing and sending orders rapidly and with efficiency.

"So I am to be the messenger to the messenger of God?" he asked curiously. He then brightened at the idea. "There cannot be another task greater than that."

"I'm glad you feel that way." She handed him the letter. "Because I need you to deliver a letter for me. You'll be accompanying a group of soldiers to meet allies at Blois who will then take the letter to Orléans and give it to the English. I'm assuming the English will respond so when they do, report back to me what they said."

He took the paper and saluted. "Sir, yes, sir!" And then he was gone, flying off into the night with determination on his back.

Edmond, though headstrong, had shrunk considerably in confidence ever since their journey from Vaucouleurs to Chinon. He constantly snuck glances over his shoulder and visibly tensed up at the mention of war. The closer they got, the more afraid he became. Jeanne knew that there was one thing stronger than fear and that was God; she knew Edmond's love for Jesus Christ was strong, so she pondered over what exactly he could do for her.

She eventually addressed Edmond with an idea in mind. "I'd like you to be my standard bearer," she proposed.

His eyebrows crinkled in confusion. "A standard bearer?"

"Well, not only are we fighting for the nation of France, but also for God Almighty. I want everyone to know this and I'm going to request that a standard should be made in the image of God. I need you to carry it for me."

A kind of yearnful look passed over his gaze when she said this. "You—you need me?" His voice was small like a child's and her heart cracked at the sound as if he believed himself to be less than.

With concentrated eyes, she held his hands and said, "Of course I do. You are one of the strongest and most courageous men I know. Your faith, your love is admirably powerful and I want others to realize this as well—not only will the enemy know the advantage we carry, but our own men will be influenced by the sight of a heavenly flag standing among them. Their faith will grow, their bravery will prevail. Who else would I choose to carry this little piece of heaven around for all to witness?"

Edmond's eyes practically glowed in sudden pride like a cat's when noticing hasty movement. He nodded his head and squeezed her hands, declaring, "You can count on me, Jeanne. I will proudly saunter into battle with God's standard high above my head. I will graze through the enemy and lift up the spirits of our brethren. Have no fear, Jeanette—I won't let you down."

A smile creeped up on her lips. There he was again: the same old Edmond who once claimed that he could fight off a rabid dog with his bare hands, who arm-wrestles anyone at any given chance, who needs to prove his physical strength at all times. She really needed him there, so she went off in search for the Dauphin to have such a standard made.

She came upon the grand double doors of the throne room; they were closed and two guards stood in front of it. When she requested to speak with the Dauphin, they refused, saying that he was currently conversing with Sieur France, General de Richemont, and other men of war. She did recall Francis being temporarily pulled away earlier in the day, but wasn't told of where he was going, much less of this meeting which she felt she deserved to be a part of.

"How much longer will they be?" she asked one of the guards.

"It is not determined," he answered in a bored tone. That was probably his go-to response for most questions he was asked.

She huffed, frustrated with all these needless delays. She was about to complain that they were, once again, wasting precious time when a voice piped up behind her: "I can pass on a message, if you'd like."

Jeanne turned around and found a very beautiful woman standing a few meters away, dressed in very elegant clothing. A small gathering of girls surrounded her—they appeared to be around Jeanne's age and also wore nice materials (though nothing as fancy as the woman). She held a little boy in her arms (perhaps five or six years old) who was resting his head on her shoulder—he had the same big brown eyes as the pretty lady, so she assumed that he was her son.

The guards immediately bowed, the low clinking of their armor echoing down the hall. "Your Highness," they acknowledged and Jeanne's chest could've burst at the overwhelming amount of shock she felt.

"Ah! Your Highness!" She quickly curtseyed before the wife of the Dauphin, Marie of Anjou. "I apologize for my ignorance; I didn't know it was you."

A small smile graced her colored lips. "I suppose the Lord didn't tell you about me like He did my husband."

She stiffened. "N-No, I'm afraid not."

Still smiling, Marie shrugged. "This is a man's world we reside in, after all." She adjusted the boy on her hip. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Mademoiselle Jeanne d'Arc. I've heard a great many things about you."

"Thank you. I do wish I could've spoken with Your Highness sooner."

"Is there something you need to tell my husband? I'd be more than happy to inform him of any requests you may have."

"Oh! I, um, wanted to ask the Dauphin about a standard being made for the battle at Orléans."

"Oh? Well, if that's all you desire, I can have that done without delay."

Marie set the little boy down and said to him softly, "Go with Pauline, Louis."[4]

The boy waddled toward a girl with hair the color of lemons and grabbed her awaiting hand as if he'd done this plenty of times before. As little Louis wandered off with the group of women, Marie turned in the other direction, looked at Jeanne, and uttered, "Come with me, Mademoiselle."

Jeanne hurried after her as she pushed open a door that she hadn't noticed before; Jeanne closed it behind them once Marie asked her to. They traveled down a few corridors before entering a small chamber with a large table in the center while ten empty chairs surrounded it. Jeanne recognized it to be the same room where the Dauphin's advisors pointlessly argued with her about the country's fate.

"At least there's no person here to nag us out," Marie muttered under her breath as she lowered herself into the nearest chair and grabbed a sheet of paper, an ink pot, and a quill that was left behind by some careless scribe. She looked up at her. "Come, sit."

Jeanne did as she was told.

Marie dipped the tip of the quill into the ink pot. "So what kind of standard do you require?"

Jeanne scratched the nape of her neck. "Um, well, obviously it should have something to represent the French people, to remind our soldiers what they're fighting for. But it also needs a dedication to Jesus Christ; I am here because of Him. The French army should be motivated to push forward, knowing that God is on our side and the English army should know better once their eyes fall upon this standard, that they shouldn't talk back to the voice of God."

Marie nodded her head, her tall black hat swiping through the air. "I agree. Lifting the spirits of our soldiers should definitely help our situation. Too many men come through here with such somber expressions on their faces and fear prevents them from going back into battle." She pondered. "So, perhaps a fleur-de-lis and an image of Jesus would send such a message across. I very much like the idea of putting the Virgin Mary somewhere on there." She smiled at her. "To represent you, of course."

Jeanne sensed blood rushing to her cheeks; she ducked her head, hoping Marie wouldn't see. "Ah, that won't be necessary, Your Highness…"

"I believe it is. Do you know how many times I've attempted to put in a word or two into those long council meetings? I was beginning to think that what they said was true: that women aren't suitable for politics or war or anything of the sort. But then God chose a young girl from nowhere with little to no experience to bring salvation to France once again." Her kind smile never wavered as she scribbled some notes down, lifting Jeanne's heart in thankfulness and confidence.

"I won't disappoint you, Your Highness," she said. "I will see to it that your husband is crowned king; because of this, you will be deemed Queen of France."

"Charles and I have high hopes in you, as does my mother, Duchess Yolande.[5] She was very happy to hear of your goals and strong determination to assist the French cause. In fact, she said she'd pay for the expenses it'd take for your army to get to Orléans."

Jeanne's eyebrows rose at this new information. "Oh! Nobody mentioned that at the council meeting. That is most generous of her."

"Of course they didn't," she heard her mumble. The scratching of the quill filled in the momentarily silence between them before Marie dropped it back into the ink pot and examined her work.

"This should do it," she approved. Her dark eyes met Jeanne's once again; she smiled fondly. "I'll make sure your standard is completed before the Orléans campaign."

"Thank you again, Your Highness." She paused. "Duchess Yolande is originally from Spain, is she not?"

"From Zaragoza, yes."

"Does Spain have a personification, too?"

Marie's smile softened as if recalling some distant yet cherished memory. "Yes. His name is Lord Antonio Fernandez Carriedo. He is a very kind man and is actually very good friends with Sieur France."

She blinked. "He is?"

"Oh, yes. Lord Spain has taken several journeys into France to see his dear friend throughout the war—or so I've been told. Last time I received word that he was in France was back in October, when the English took siege of Orléans. I'm not certain where or even if he managed to find Sieur France—no one really knew where he resided at that time—but I do know that Lord Spain is greatly concerned for his friend if he keeps risking attack from the Burgundians or the English just to see his face." She rested a hand on her bare collarbone. "I'm sure he'll be very glad to meet you, knowing what you are doing."

Jeanne smiled at the thought. "I'd be honored to meet him."

She continued to converse with Marie, relaxed to be in the presence of another woman, grateful for her faith and trust in her mission. She wished there were a way to contact this Lord Spain, to bring him to Francis so she'd know these two friends could finally meet again, but sadly, time was everything and she wasn't sure if it'd be helpful to the mission.

A couple days later, Noël came running into the château de Chinon. Jeanne was glad to see her friend healthy and safe but asked him why he returned empty-handed. He explained that the English apparently had nothing to say; when the French messenger stationed at Blois came back from Orléans with no letter to take, Noël prodded him to turn around and demand a reply at once.

"He said that wasn't how things worked," he grumbled, crossing his arms with a huff.

"That's not too surprising coming from England. He probably believed it to be a joke."

The two glanced at Francis on the opposite side of the room, hovering by the desk Louis sat at. He had looked up from the list Louis was preparing—Jeanne told him to keep track of food rations for her army in the upcoming days—and wore a disgruntled expression on his very bruised face.

"You may not receive any written message from Lord Arthur Kirkland; his responses tend to be unexpected and violent like the plague," he muttered under his breath.

"Who's he?" Noël asked.

"The personification of England. He's currently situated at Orléans, so your letter most likely ended up in his hands." His gaze landed on her. "This man is extremely dangerous. He's a very skilled archer and swordsman. Avoid him at all costs, Jeanne—he'll come for you once he realizes your potential. Stay away from him."

She narrowed her eyes. "I came here to get rid of the problem, not to avoid him."

"Jeanne, I'm serious."

"So am I."

"I'll take care of him; you should be placed in the middle of the brigade, the safest position to be."

"Right, because you were handling things just fine before I came along."

She saw in the corner of her vision Noël's pursed lips, wide eyes, and raised eyebrows, clearly trying his best to hold in a laugh. Louis stopped writing and, while keeping his head down, flicked his eyes up as if waiting for something to go flying across the room. Francis didn't say anything; he only closed his eyes and sighed quietly, something her own father did whenever he was at his wits end.

She took a step forward and muttered, "I will drive the English out by any means necessary, even if I must drive out England himself, and not even you can stop me."

And with that, she spun around and stormed out of the room, wondering what was taking them so long.

"You already know General de Richemont, but I'd like you to meet some other generals who will be joining us in Orléans."

Jeanne, Noël, Louis, Edmond, Jean, and Pierre trotted after Francis, passing by the long line of soldiers that Jeanne and said generals were to lead into battle in a week's time. The plan was to meet up with the Scottish army at Blois and then travel to Orléans where they will relieve the troops stationed there before conducting their attack method.

Jeanne was aware of the many stares following her as she trailed behind Francis. She wished for them to look the other way (or, at the very least, for her brain to numb the feeling of being watched), but, with her being one of the few women on the castle grounds and the only female commander, she figured that'd be asking for too much.

They came upon two men having a pleasant chat as though they were old friends. One had the typical knight haircut and a thick unibrow while the other was heavily bearded and as tall and strong as a mountain. Their conversation drifted away once Francis Bonnefoy and six teenagers walked up to them, just like how a dog would show off her curious pups.

"Good morning, Sieur France," said the man with the unibrow. "How are you this fine day?"

"Just fine, thank you. I trust that you're also doing well?"

"Oh, we're just waiting around for the war to begin again." He slapped a hand on the broad shoulder of the enormous soldier looming next to him. "Our friend here hasn't beheaded anyone in over an hour, and he doesn't know what to do with himself."

They chuckled amongst themselves (including the giant) before Francis gestured to the children beside him. "I wanted to properly introduce you to Commander d'Arc and her loyal friends and soldiers—Noël, Pierre, Jean, Louis, and Edmond. Commander, this is General de Dunois and General de Vignolles. They've participated in many campaigns and are fully prepared for the Orléans operation."

Before Francis could even finish his introduction, Jean pushed forward and, with a gaping mouth and starstruck eyes, blurted out, "It's la Hire and the Bastard of Orléans!"

At that, the young soldiers openly gawked at the pair as though they just discovered a home of fairies (even shy little Louis gasped in delight and leaned between Edmond and Noël's shoulders to get a closer look). Jeanne gazed at the two generals as a memory danced across her vision, lifting her heart and leaving her breathless. Whenever a militia messenger came to their village with updated news on the war, she remembered hearing "the Bastard of Orléans" and "La Hire" often. Not only were their names constantly passed around, but with them carried great reputations that they never seemed to disappoint. The Bastard was known for his wit and bravery, la Hire had a long list of brutal deaths under his belt. And here they were, standing right in front of them in all their glory, praising them as if they were gods.

"I've heard that you once took down three men in one swing of an axe," Jean told la Hire. "Is it true?"

"You're so much taller than I'd thought you'd be," Edmond muttered.

"My soul can now rest in peace, now that I've seen true heroes," Pierre declared in a voice that was a mixture between pride and longing.

Soon they began talking over one another, burning questions overlapping like the waves of a hurricane. The Bastard raised his hands in surrender.

"You're all very kind and we should be thanking you for your service to His Highness's army. But Commander d'Arc…" He grinned at her. "You're something else entirely, aren't you?"

La Hire chuckled some more. "I'll confess I had my doubts at first, but when you spotted His Highness among that crowd of nobles, I knew then that the rumors must've been true. How did you know that the Bastard would nearly lose his leg back at Orléans? That was fucking amazing."

Jeanne's jaw twitched at his poor choice of words. "God Almighty told Saint Margaret and Saint Catherine to tell me." She paused and then added, "And He wouldn't appreciate you using such foul language."

As la Hire frowned in confusion, her friends simultaneously whipped their heads towards her, staring her down with looks of shock and embarrassment.

"Just let it go this once, Jeanne," Jean muttered. He had that irritated spark in his eye that he'd get whenever she was being the annoying little sister, humiliating whatever reputation or dignity he said he carried.

"Jeanne," Noël lectured, putting a hand on her shoulder as if he were her father or her uncle or some other parental figure who was allowed to give her a good talking to, "this is la Hire and the Bastard of Orléans, two of the most splendid fighters this good nation has ever seen. One simply does not tell such brilliance what language they can and cannot speak."

Temper rising, she shrugged out of his grasp and glared at him. "I have no care for how well they can wield a sword—they are still children of God and need to follow His example."

"Have I said something that offended you?" la Hire asked her, looking offended himself.

Jeanne tilted her head back to frown up at him. Quiet groans echoed around her and out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Pierre closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose.

"It is not appropriate for you to let your tongue utter such a sinful word," she retorted at the boulder of a man. "If we're to be comrades, then—"

"Are you referring to 'fuck'?" he interrupted. "If so, then you're going to have to get used to it because I use the word quite fucking often."

He then smirked to himself as though he thought he were clever, which only fueled the low fire in the pit of her stomach. She narrowed her eyes into slits and pointed at him as if her finger were a dagger.

"There shall be no use of that vile word in my army!" she yelled in his face (more realistically, into his chest). "France will not tolerate any sinful man who refuses to fight for the glory of Jesus Christ. Therefore, if you wish to stay in this army, then you must never say the Lord's name in vain nor use any curse for whatever reason. They are dangerous and create nothing but trouble."

"It is not," he snapped back, leaning over her, his shadow swallowing up her own. "They're merely words—they're useless until one gives them meaning."

"They already have unholy definitions! They're blasphemous!"

"No, they're not!"

"Yes, they are!"

"No, they're not!"

"Yes, they are!"

"Alright, this was obviously a mistake."

Francis stepped in between the bickering birds and pushed their shouting faces away from each other. He then took hold of Jeanne's bicep, leaving la Hire to his own devices while mumbling some farewell to the Bastard (who was covering his mouth with his hand although she could see the smile in his eyes). Francis began dragging Jeanne off to the side; she threw a glance over her shoulder. Her brothers and friends waved their hands frantically in front of la oh-so-wonderful Hire, pleading to ignore her outburst, swearing that she was as pleasant as they said. He didn't look impressed, but he wasn't totally against their claims either.

"What an extremely rude man," she muttered to herself. "We were never told he had such a mouth on him."

"Actually, you're the one who's being rude."

Francis halted in his tracks. He pulled down on her arm and lowered to her short structure. His eyes narrowed, his lips frowned. "Why do you have to argue with everyone you come across? What's the point in making so many enemies when you haven't even stepped into battle yet?"

Jeanne scowled back and ripped her limb out of his grasp. "I didn't come here to make friends; I'm here to save you and to crown the Dauphin."

"But you won't succeed if you continue to disagree and bicker over everything. There are several persons who have higher statues than you and you're going to need their help in order to get pass certain obstacles. If you manage to get on their bad side, then your mission is done for. Every enemy you make will come back to haunt you."

"Everything is in God's hands. If—"

"You're not listening, Jeanne!"

She flinched at the sudden intensity in Francis's tone. It was subtle yet all the more shocking; not even his facial expression shifted much. His torn lips were ajar, revealing even more of his crooked teeth and inflamed gums. Like a dog, his typically charming voice had growled through his clenched jaw which came out in a low snarl. He surprised her, definitely and he was aware of it. So, he relaxed his jaw, sighed, and then went on much more calmly:

"If you don't compromise with people, you're going to end up hurting yourself."

She stared at him with shut lips for a moment longer, but overtime she felt her teeth grind together and her face scrunch into a furious expression. She took one threatening step toward him, her neck craned back to peer up at him.

"And you're not listening to me, Francis," she hissed in the same tone he used with her. "I never said I was concerned about my personal safety. My only priorities are the Dauphin and you, and I will do whatever it takes to protect you two, even if other people will hate me for it, including yourselves. I know of the dangers that could befall on me; I'm not stupid. Come what may, and I'll make do."

As if for good measure, she rose on her tiptoes, mere inches from his face. She continued glaring at him; his stare flicked to her scowling lips before dragging back to her eyes. "And not even you can stop me," she growled. She then blew in his face and stormed off.

She felt her face and ears once she realized what she just did via another temper tantrum, and the heat only increased once she heard Francis's faint snickering behind her.

[1] Joan isn't the only person to receive spiritual visions, telling her to go to war. Two young boys, around the age of twelve, claimed to have visions from God, commanding them to go to Jerusalem and take back the Holy Land from the Muslims. In 1212, Nicholas of Germany and Stephan of France went with thousands of other youths via ships; it was a huge failure, considering they were all unexperienced children who didn't know a thing about war (hence the crusade's name). Whoever didn't drown were taken as slaves once they came within the Ottoman Empire's borders.

[2] It's the medieval ages, so yay! The Black Death is among us! England, France, and Scotland agreed to delay the war a few years to recover from the plague because so many of their men were dying (though Scotland had it the hardest). Soldiers withdrew into the countryside to recover but ended up only spreading the sickness further. When the wave of the plague finally passed through after 1350, the main rivals were looking about the same in both advantages and disadvantages, so weirdly, the plague didn't affect the military as much as it could've. What it did affect was the French government: a social change overcame the people of France and they strived for a more efficient central government. The feudalism system was loosened somewhat and a more democratic system was produced. The French monarchy that finally managed to kick England out in 1453 was not the same that suffered humiliating defeats at the beginning. Strange to say, but the French government wouldn't have improved like it did without the Black Death as a motivator to keep it stable and active.

[3] French translation: "Joan the Maid". Joan's name is spelled differently here because of the different pronunciations of the medieval times. Almost every language spelled things differently 500 years ago than they do today. This happened in the English language too; they put a lot more e's in their words.

[4] The first child of Charles and Marie would eventually become Louis XI of France and reign from 1461-1483 (he was nicknamed the Spider King, Louis the Prudent, and Louis the Cunning). He would continue his father's task of strengthening France after the end of the Hundred Years War (which ended around 1453). Louis wasn't exactly attractive and was often ridiculed for it, causing him to become superstitious and ruthless later in life. But he was very intelligent and devout to his country; he was "a bold warrior who was able to command loyalty." Louis would participate in battles in the 1440s and, impatient to rule, would join a rebellion with hopes of overthrowing his father (the Praguerie). It proved to be a failure, however, and Charles would pardon him from it.

[5] Here is one of the most underrated queens I've ever heard of. Yolande of Aragon contributed much to the crowning of Charles VII and ensured the best for the kingdom of France. Charles's parents were often against him during the Hundred Years War, believing that he wasn't meant to be king, so Yolande withdrew him from their court and placed him in her care and helped arrange the marriage between him and Marie. When Charles's mother, Isabeau, asked Yolande for him back, she wrote a giant fuck you letter, basically saying that she and Charles VI (Charles's dad) were ruining his chances of becoming king, thus making the situation worse for France. She soon took control of the House of Anjou when her husband, Louis II, died of illness in 1417—the House of Valois and the fate of France rested heavily in her hands now. She surrounded Charles with members from the House of Anjou, basically the only supporters of the French crown and even convinced John VI, Duke of Brittany to break a former alliance with England. She promoted Arthur de Richemont to Constable of France in 1425 and through him managed to remove several advisors from Charles's court who were deemed "unworthy to the salvation of France". Yolande was a huge supporter of Joan from the get-go and helped her financially and popularity-wise, spreading her name throughout Europe. She also hired groups of women as spies, coaching them into becoming the mistresses of powerful men and report back to her of what was going on around the kingdom, ranging from places such as Lorraine, Burgundy, Brittany, and in the heart of Charles's court. What an awesome, badass lady! Give her a movie, for goodness sake!