I don’t know. How does one ever know?

‘This is ridiculous,’ my great-aunt says boldly. ‘Who has ordered the poor girl to be chained? Open the door at once.’

There is a confused muttering of men trying to shift the responsibility, and then someone turns the big key in the cell door and my great-aunt stalks in. The girl – she must be about seventeen or eighteen, only a few years older than me – looks up from under her jagged fringe of hair as my great-aunt stands before her, and then slowly she rises to her feet, doffs her cap, and gives an awkward little bow.

‘I am the Lady Jehanne, the Demoiselle of Luxembourg,’ my great-aunt says. ‘This is the castle of Lord John of Luxembourg.’ She gestures to my aunt: ‘This is his wife, the lady of the castle, Jehanne of Bethune, and this is my great-niece Jacquetta.’

The girl looks steadily at all of us and gives a nod of her head to each. As she looks at me I feel a little tap-tap for my attention, as palpable as the brush of a fingertip on the nape of my neck, a whisper of magic. I wonder if standing behind her there are indeed two accompanying angels, as she claims, and it is their presence that I sense.

‘Can you speak, Maid?’ my great-aunt asks, when the girl says nothing.

‘Oh yes, my lady,’ the girl replies in the hard accent of the Champagne region. I realise that it is true what they say about her: she is no more than a peasant girl, though she has led an army and crowned a king.

‘Will you give me your word not to escape if I have these chains taken off your legs?’

She hesitates, as if she were in any position to choose. ‘No, I can’t.’

My great-aunt smiles. ‘Do you understand the offer of parole? I can release you to live with us here in my nephew’s castle; but you have to promise not to run away.’

The girl turns her head, frowning. It is almost as if she is listening for advice, then she shakes her head. ‘I know this parole. It is when one knight makes a promise to another. They have rules as if they were jousting. I’m not like that. My words are real, not like a troubadour’s poem. And this is no game for me.’

‘Maid: parole is not a game!’ Aunt Jehanne interrupts.

The girl looks at her. ‘Oh, but it is, my lady. The noblemen are not serious about these matters. Not serious like me. They play at war and make up rules. They ride out and lay waste to good people’s farms and laugh as the thatched roofs burn. Besides, I cannot make promises. I am promised already.’

‘To the one who wrongly calls himself the King of France?’

‘To the King of Heaven.’

My great-aunt pauses for a moment’s thought. ‘I will tell them to take the chains off you and guard you so that you do not escape; and then you can come and sit with us in my rooms. I think what you have done for your country and for your prince has been very great, Joan, though mistaken. And I will not see you here, under my roof, a captive in chains.’