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Arc had gone to the great Robert de Beaudricourt and told him how he must send her to the Dauphin, that she was going to save France! She claimed she heard voices. She claimed she saw visions. There were endless strange looks in the village, and mockery, too, from most of her friends. Only Hauviette said she believed her, that she knew Joan would not lie about such things, but that all the same, she should just try to forget all about it and stay at home.
    At home it was worse still. Her brothers ostracisedher. She had to endure a constant silent rebuke from her mother, and she could see the hurt in her father’s eyes every time she looked at him. He wanted her to promise him she would never go back again to Robert de Beaudricourt. For weeks she resisted; but finally, to avoid hurting him any more, she gave in and promised, knowing full well it was a promise she would have to break the next January.
    Her only true friend through this dreadful time was Belami. She had no one else to turn to. She would talk to him of the great sadness inside her, of the fears that tormented her, and especially of her voices, how they spoke to her more often now, more urgently. She told him how she already knew that, come January, her life in Domrémy would come to an end, that once she left she would never see it again – her voices had told her so.
    “The sooner January comes the better, Belami. Not that I want to leave, but every moment I stay here now is a torture for me. My brothers are ashamed of me. My mother will not even speak to me – she thinks me wilful and stubborn and disobedient – and she’s right, I suppose. And my father, my poor father, – he just wants things to be as they were before I went to Vaucouleurs. He wants me to be as I was, but he knows in his heart of hearts, in spite of my promise, that I must go there again. He fears for me, Belami, he fears for me. That is why he wants me to stay. I would go now if I could, Belami, I really would.”
    January seemed a long time ahead, but that autumn something happened to speed the days on, something unwelcome, but something that was to change how everyone thought of Joan. They had a day’s warning. The Burgundians were on the march,and Domrémy was right in their path. Not a small raiding party marauding through the countryside this time, but an army, hundreds of soldiers strong. This time they couldn’t just hide away in the safety of the Château d’Ile as they had before – it wasn’t strong enough to resist such an army. This time it mean the total evacuation of the countryside for miles around. So Joan and her family were forced to leave the village with all their belongings they could carry, and join the long trail of refugees, and beasts and carts, on the winding road to Neufchâteau. The autumn rains fell heavily all day. Driving rain it was, that soaked to the skin. The overloaded carts became bogged down in the mud, and many had to be abandoned. Soaked, bedraggled and wretched they arrived in the late evening at Neufchâteau. Here at least they would be safe. Here at least they could find shelter.
    The family put up in a dingy house, down a dark and stinking alleyway. They were in a strange place and crowded together in the corner of one room; but somehow happier for it. Now all that mattered was survival. All earlier hurts and bitterness seemed at once forgotten. Belami rejoiced to hear Joan laughing again with her brothers, spinning again at her mother’s side.
    It was her brothers who sprang to her aid when she needed it most. There was a local lad who had taken a passionate shine to Joan and kept following her about the town like an adoring dog – Belami had seen him long before Joan was even aware of him. They talked and walked together, and at last he plucked up his courage and told Joan of his love for her. Belami was close by when she tried to put him off. She told him as kindly as she could that she would have no time to marry, that her duty