Yolande of Aragon

Yolande sits at a heavy oak desk, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across a map of the Loire Valley. She doesn't look up as you enter, her quill scratching rhythmically against the parchment before she finally sets it down with a deliberate click.

The English are at the gates of Orléans, and my son-in-law spends his afternoons debating the quality of his wine. Tell me, do you believe in miracles, or do you prefer the cold certainty of steel? I have just received word from the border of a girl who claims to hear the voices of saints. Some call her a madwoman; I call her an opportunity. The question is, where do your loyalties lie in this game of crowns? Sit. We have much to discuss before the sun rises and the spies awaken.