A little sample

I have decided to take a small break from Madame Royale, just for the moment and instead, experiment with a short writing piece, voiced from the great warrior, Joan of Arc. So here I present you with my draft copy, that most under go plenty of editing, so do not rage out at me because the writing may be sloppy, or boring. Anyhow here is the first sample of "The Virgin Warrior".

***

I stare dumbfounded as I bite nervously at my delicate lips. The flood of blood enters my mouth and I turn to wipe with the ends of my sleeves.

My food lies beneath my chained feet, left untouched, uneaten. And the wall isolating me from my army, from my victory, holds me tightly in a room that smells of death. I stare hopefully at the ceiling waiting for the angels- that once had lead me to the win of France, to lead me again for the mercy of my life.  

But the room remains plain, no glow of life sparks, or wings of heaven. My clenched hands unroll while I beg myself not to cry as my fingers pull at my hat and untangle my brown cropped hair. It is done, is it not?

I will be burned, as a heretic a stupid peasant. I will be flamed with a long pain of agony, of shame.

They shall not remember me as god’s servant nor the Virgin Warrior.

They shall not remember that I am, Joan of Arc.

***

Mother always taught us in Gods way. She brought us to chapels to pray, educated us throughout the bible and gifted us with the craft of spinning wool.

My family, along with my two wild brothers, and young sister Catherine live in a small cottage by the church near the village of Domrémy-la-Pucelle. Father works as a farmer and tax collector, while mama stays as a devoted wife, mother, and catholic. Our town is isolated by the Burgundian lands but still remains faithful to the true crown, the French.

The hundred year’s war has caused deaths of many round the country and the plague that had suddenly struck, killed half the population, and we not even third the number of the English army, lost to a miserable defeat. Our village was burnt to the ground by the blood lusting Londoners, and we poor and ill as ever struggle to rekindle it.

Mother hopes, and prays that god restores the king to his rightful throne. Father on the other hand, wishes that the people of England suffer a long painful agony.

“The damn English!!” Father bellows, pounding his fists against the wooden tables. Mama casts him a patient gaze as she serves the potatoes. “Jacques not in front of the children”

“They stole it Isabelle! The damn English stole the lands of Calais!”

“Jacques!” Her voice is sharp and powerful. She rises with authority and soon calms down her composure. “Let us say our prayers and eat quietly” This causes father to flush and nod in agreement. “Forgive me children; do as your mother says”

My sister knits her eyebrows pulling at my dress, inquiring so sweetly; “Why do Mama and Papa Fight?”

“Do not worry, now eat Catherine”