‘I don’t think so,’ my great-aunt says staunchly. ‘The English are terrified of her. They say she is unbeatable.’

‘Not any more,’ my uncle observes. ‘For behold! She is a prisoner, and the cell doors don’t burst open. They know she is mortal now. They saw her with an arrow in her thigh outside the walls of Paris and her own army marched off and left her. The French themselves taught the English that she could be brought down and abandoned.’

‘But you won’t give her to the English,’ my great-aunt states. ‘It would be to dishonour us forever, in the eyes of God and the world.’

My uncle leans forwards to speak confidentially. ‘You take it so seriously? You really think she is more than a mountebank? You really think she is something more than a peasant girl spouting nonsense? You know I could find half a dozen such as her?’

‘You could find half a dozen who say they are like her,’ she says. ‘But not one like her. I think she is a special girl. Truly I do, nephew. I have a very strong sense of this.’

He pauses, as if her sense of things, though she is only a woman, is something to be considered. ‘You have had a vision of her success? A foretelling?’

For a moment she hesitates, then she quickly shakes her head. ‘Nothing so clear. But nonetheless, I must insist that we protect her.’

He pauses, not wanting to contradict her. She is the Demoiselle of Luxembourg, the head of our family. My father will inherit the title when she dies; but she also owns great lands that are all at her own disposition: she can will them to anyone she chooses. My uncle John is her favourite nephew; he has hopes, and he does not want to offend her.

‘The French will have to pay a good price for her,’ he says. ‘I don’t intend to lose money on her. She is worth a king’s ransom. They know this.’

My great-aunt nods. ‘I will write to the Dauphin Charles and he will ransom her,’ she tells him. ‘Whatever his advisors say, he will still listen to me, though he is blown about like a leaf by his favourites. But I am his godmother. It is a question of honour. He owes all that he is to the Maid.’

‘Very well. But do it at once. The English are very pressing and I won’t offend the Duke of Bedford. He is a powerful man, and a fair one. He is the best ruler of France that we could hope for. If he were a Frenchman he would be wholly loved.’

My great-aunt laughs. ‘Yes, but he is not! He’s the English regent, and he should go back to his own damp island and his little nephew, the poor king, and make what they can of their own kingdom and leave us to rule France.’

‘Us?’ my uncle queries, as if to ask her if she thinks that our family, who already rule half a dozen earldoms and who count kinship to the Holy Roman Emperors, should be French kings as well.