Excerpts

Warrior Girl A Novel of Joan of Arc Chapter One Mariane It was my grandmother who saved me. I was making everyone sick with my screams, the wordless noise that said I want my mother! I want my mother! They were all pleading with me to stop, but I couldn't help myself. Like a hog driven to slaughter, I bit and kicked and scratched. I stuck my foot in the door of my mother's room as they tried to push me away, dug my nails into the wood of the jambs until the ends of my fingers bled, all the time making animal grunts, my eyes forever fixed on the smudge of blood, that wrongness, at the side of my mother's mouth. Through the closing gap of the doorway I saw my aunts arranging her body, one of them wiping the blood away, as my grandmother's arms closed on mine. Her arms are as strong as steel and brook no argument. So, as she prised me away, I gave in to her, let her lead me downstairs, let her sit me on her lap as if I were a baby again. And she held me so tight that, in the end, my rage vanished and I clung to her, because I knew she was saving my life. My mother's murderers would have cut me down, too, if I'd run after them. And I would have, make no mistake; I would have dashed after them straight into hell itself, to kill or to be killed, but for my grandmother. Even though I am grown, almost ready to marry and leave home, I submitted to the treatment: for hours she wrapped her shawl around me and held me tight, rocking my heartache, singing. I think she expected, or, in the end, hoped, that it would bring back my voice. Grandmère had a repertoire of songs which she sang to me during this time, always in the same order, one after the other, until I was soothed into sleep. My favorite was the first: "Viens par le pré, ma belle," "Come into the meadow, my pretty girl" -- as I sing it again, silently in my head, I can feel Grandmère's warm breath on my face and hear again the soft sound of her voice as she murmured the words. The song is imprinted on my mind like a map to tell me who I am and where I've come from. One day, I'm going home, that's my plan; when the time's right, I'll go back there, I'll just go. Of course, Uncle Jacques will try to stop me. I was sent here because it's too dangerous for me in Reims. Well, I shan't tell him -- I'll wait until he's away or busy with the harvest or until I think he's forgotten my existence, then I'll grab my bag and I'll go home. I won't let Grandmère send me back again. They say it's a long dangerous road from Domrémy to Reims, but I'll travel at night, using the ditches and tracks that no one else uses. I'll stay off the road; the English are all over it like a rash. Even if I were seen, no one would bother with me. I'm a "throwback," according to Uncle Jacques, a dimblebat, an idiot, because I can't speak. It makes me angry, but I don't let on. Underneath I'm stoking my rage, turning it into the energy I need to get back to Reims. It's hot today, hot September. This field of turnips looks small from the farmhouse, but when you're in it and not even halfway through pulling the crop, it stretches out to infinity. To be honest, I couldn't care less if I never see another turnip in my life. I've been doing this job all week, with my cousin Jehanne. Which means, more or less, by myself, because as soon as Jehanne has filled her quota of baskets, which she does at top speed, she's off into Long Meadow. She lies down in the stubble, prostrate, like a nun in a church, making the sign of the cross with her body on the ground, and she lies like that, quite silent, for hours. She says she is attending to God. She says she is listening for His message. This seems devout, but it can't be right, can it? I hate turnips. They don't even taste nice. These are purple. Last week we pulled the yellow. The leaves are so hairy and rough, turnip-pulling ruins your hands. I wish my hands were like those of Father Cornelius; his hands are as soft as lamb's wool and his eyes are deep, like brown pools on a hot summer's day. I'd like my husband to look like Father Cornelius. He's slim and strong and his face goes quite still when he looks at you, which makes you feel special. The only thing is that sometimes a cold look comes into his eyes, as if he knows all your sins and has got you signed, sealed, judged, and sent to damnation. He'd better not find out about Jehanne lying down in the fields. He'd probably think she was showing off and getting above her station: a mere woman trying to listen to God by herself instead of in church at the proper time. He wouldn't like that, I know he wouldn't. But if he asked me about her, I couldn't lie, so he'd better not. She's getting to her feet. I shade my eyes to get a better view. She always knows when it's time for the bells to ring out the call to prayer, and she stands facing the church, listening, as if the bells are ringing just for her. "Mariane! Mariane!" It's Jehanne's mother, my aunt Isabeau. She's standing by the gate into the farmyard, tying a scarf around her hair. "Where's Jehanne?" Something's happened. She never fetches us from the fields, but she's hitched up her skirt and is treading over the ruts in the lane, crossing over to the gate. She stops and shades her eyes. Warrior Girl A Novel of Joan of Arc . Copyright © by Pauline Chandler. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. All rights reserved. Available now wherever books are sold. Excerpted from Warrior Girl: A Novel of Joan of Arc by Pauline Chandler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. 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