Long afterwards it was told me by one of mine own men-at-arms that there had been a regular plot amongst the rougher of the soldiers at the outset to do her a mischief, and to sell her into the hands of the Burgundians or the English.  But even before leaving Vaucouleurs the men had wavered, half ashamed of their own doubts and thoughts, and before we had proceeded two days’ journey forward, all, to a man, would have laid down their lives in her service.

The only matter that troubled the Maid was that we were unable to hear Mass, as she longed to do daily.  The risk of showing ourselves in town or village was too great.  But there came a night, when, as we journeyed, we approached the town of Fierbois, a place very well known to me; and when we halted in a wood with the first light of day, and the wearied soldiers made themselves beds amid the dried fern and fallen leaves, I approached the Maid, who was gazing wistfully towards the tapering spire of a church, visible at some distance away, and I said to her: 

“Gentle Maid, yonder is the church of Sainte Catherine at Fierbois, and there will be, without doubt, early Mass celebrated within its walls.  If you will trust yourself with Bertrand and myself, I trow we could safely convey you thither, and bring you back again, ere the day be so far advanced that the world will be astir to wonder at us.”

Her face brightened as though a sunbeam had touched it.  She needed not to reply in words.  A few minutes later, and we were walking together through the wood, and had quickly reached the church, where the chiming of the bell told us that we should not be disappointed of our hope.

We knelt at the back of the church, and there were few worshippers there that morning.  I could not but watch the face of the Maid, and suddenly I felt a curious thrill run through me, as though I had been touched by an unseen hand.  I looked at her, and upon her face had come a look which told me that she was listening to some voice unheard by me.  She clasped her hands, her eyes travelled toward the altar, and remained fixed upon it, as though she saw a vision.  Her lips moved, and I thought I heard the murmured words: 

“Blessed Sainte Catherine, I hear.  I will remember.  When the time comes I shall know what to do.”

When the priest had finished his office we slipped out before any one else moved, and reached the shelter of the woods again without encountering any other person.  I almost hoped that the Maid would speak to us of what had been revealed to her in that church, but she kept the matter in her own heart.  Yet, methinks, she pondered it long and earnestly; for although she laid her down as if to sleep, her eyes were generally wide open, looking upwards through the leafless budding boughs of the trees as though they beheld things not of this earth.

It was upon this day that I wrote, at the Maid’s request, a letter to the uncrowned King at Chinon, asking of him an audience on behalf of Jeanne d’Arc, the maiden from Domremy, of whom he had probably heard.  This letter I dispatched to Sir Guy de Laval, asking him to deliver it to the King with his own hands, and to bring us an answer ere we reached Chinon, which we hoped now to do in a short while.