What Jean was doing could be considered sneaking, but he was adamant in his refusal that he was not sneaking, he was only educating himself.

And if in doing that, he was going to places in the faux-palace that might not have welcomed him and Rémy had advised against doing it, then so be it.

He just really needed to talk to that woman.

He needed to know why she was sitting by the Crown Prince like a Queen or Princess would. Why the Crown Prince held her in such high regard that he listened to her rather than his advisors. Why she had decided to listen to him, and then to give the Crown Prince her approval. Why her expression had clouded over when he had spoken of Reims and the man with bushy eyebrows. And most importantly,

Why was she still alive? If he was right, and she was the woman in his vision… then she should have been dead, but she looked barely older than himself. At any rate, she looked much better than she had in his vision; her hair was matted in sweat and blood, but light and fluffy as though she had access to regular baths. She certainly wasn't suffering from a side wound and her dress was very nice and not ripped up and it looked really good on her. It hugged her right around her middle, drew subtle attention to her chest, a full skirt that obscured her lower half, and-

Oh, there she is.

She was standing in the courtyard, facing the pale face of the moon, bathed in the light it gave off, casting a delicate shadow across the flowers and stones. Jean stopped for a moment on the second floor and stared out the window watching her.

She remained still where she was, a slight ruffle in her skirt and cape most likely caused by a breeze passing by. The crown she wore on her head glinted softly in the midst of the night and her curls lightly swayed by her ears. Jean could not see her face and he had a sudden urge to know what expression she was wearing.

When he had reached the first floor, she was still as impassive as before. Jean eased open the door to the courtyard and sucked in a breath when her shoulders tightened. He slipped in and let it shut with a soft bang. At that she turned.

She seemed surprised to find him standing there. "Mademoiselle d'Arc," she said softly, her voice catching on the end of Jean's faux title. The two stared at each other for a few seconds that felt like millenia. Jean could not find it in himself to speak or to even move, caught in her gaze.

She took a step towards him. "Is there something wrong?"

The yes that fell from his mouth was high and squeaky. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Yes, there is."

"Oh," she said simply as she studied him cautiously. When he didn't say anything, she prompted him with an air of impatience. "What is it?"

"I don't know your name."

She blinked twice in quick succession. "That's it?"

"Yes."

Her mouth frowned slightly, tightening like she had eaten something sour. Jean pushed himself off of the door and approached her cautiously and slowly. "Which name would you like?"

That threw Jean and he paused. "You have more than one name?"

Her eyes sparkled like she was telling him a joke that only she knew. "Oui. There's the one everyone calls me. The one my friends call me, and then there's my real name."

They stared at each other for a while, Jean in wonderment, she in amusement. "Your real name, s'il vous plaît."

Her eyes smiled and the corners of her mouth slid up marginally. "But how you would you know the difference?"

His mouth dropped open, ready to defend himself, but he could not find any words to refute her argument. But she only smiled bigger, the creases by her eyes wrinkling up, her lips stretched into a gentle curve. He caught himself tracing it with his eyes before snapping back up to her eyes. "I'm only teasing. You may call me Françoise."

"Just Françoise?" he asked, taking a step closer to her.

She hummed her assent. "Anything else, Mademoiselle?"

"Jean," he cut across. At her mildly shocked expression, he cleared his throat. "If I am to call you Françoise, then you may call me Jean."

Françoise cast an appraising glance over his person. "Very well. Is there anything else you need, Jeanne, now that we have cleared the air."

"Just a few questions."

Her mouth twisted into something almost like a smile and a smirk. One eyebrow twitched up slightly. "What would you like to know?"

"Are you-" he blurted before coughing in embarrassment. "Are you related to the Prince?"

"Charles? Oh no no no. We're not related," she said, a laugh woven into her words.

"Then-then why?" he tried again, blushing horribly.

"Then why do I sit next to him?"

"Why did he trust your judgement?"

She looked affronted by the question. "Because he's not an idiot and I know how to make my voice heard."

He felt like they were speaking in riddles and circles and his frustration grew with each passing remark. "Why did you listen to me?"

She flinched away as though he had hit her. "Would you rather I had not listened to you?"

"No, but-"

"Then why are you asking?"

"Because it doesn't make any sense."

"What doesn't make any sense?"

"I'm worth less than the dirt underneath your shoe," Jean exploded breathlessly. "I'm a commoner. I'm-I'm," he fought to find the right word, "poor. I have nothing. Why did you-"

"A person's worth is not based on what possessions they do or do not have," Françoise said harshly.

"But why did you listen to me? Everyone else was ready to write me off as a-a- as a silly little girl and not waste one second on me. Why did you change his mind?"

Jean's last words faded out in between them as they stared at each other again. Françoise was not looking at him now, instead she was facing the west. Her expression darkened as the silence eased itself between them. Finally,

"Someone important to me is at Orleans. Actually, many persons." She cast him a sidelong glance. He stared right back at her. She looked back to the west, to Orleans. "He went just before you came. We received word that his party was ambushed just outside of Orleans almost immediately after you were dismissed. He wasn't going to stop it; he was going to help prolong their defiance, I guess. He was bringing food, but I guess the English took it now.

"I just want it to stop," she said, the exhaustion in her voice surprised.

"So he can come home," Jean suggested mildly.

"So they all can," she whispered, eyes sliding shut. Weariness was written all over her face and her shoulders slumped in a defeated posture. But what Jean found most interesting was the age that showed in her expression.

The courtyard was bathed in a midnight chill and breeze and Françoise sighed. "I am tired," she looked at him, "Jeanne. I am going to sleep. Feel free to wander if you need."

With that she breezed past him, leaving him in her wake, following her with his eyes, wondering what he was missing.


France leaned up against the door after she shut it. She let her head fall back with a slight thump. If England was not above attacking an envoy that had Scotland, his own brother, in it to get Orleans, what would make him stop? And just what could Jeanne do that would stop him?


S'il vous plaît- please

Jean/Jeanne- pronounced the same (Jean uses his name spelled masculinely, but France uses the feminine version)

SO this just after the Battle of the Herrings and France is describing the defeat at Rouvray which "was disastrous for French morale."