Welcome to another one of my amazing fanfics. This is the lost history of two of the greatest warriors ever, featuring Scathach and Joan of Arc. I own nothing of this first chapter! It all belongs to Michael Scott, who is amazing by the way. Other characters introduced in this story are real historical figures, who might not be as famous as Joan and Scatty. So enjoy!:)
BTW I did a lot of research for this, so you can trust some of the accurateness.
An excerpt from The Death of Joan of Arc:
This physician is trying to kill me!
Certainly his treatments are much worse than what ails me! He comes in each day with his poultices and potions, an pronounces me a little better everyday.- Richard imagines that when I leave this earth, he will inherit everything, but he is wrong. My fortune will go to my youngest son, William, who followed me into the army and fought valiantly for England in the wars against France that we certainly could not win.
In truth, there is little wrong with me, except for the seventy years that lay heavily upon my bones, and some old wounds which troubled me in damp weather. And seventy-or might it be seventy-one- is a goodly age in this, the Year of Our Lord, 1481.
I have few regrets. There was a girl I should have married, a war that I should never have fought in, a loaf of bread I should have shared, a lie to which I should never have listened. And there was a story I should have told. It is time to tell it while I still can.
No doubt you will have been told the tale of the death of the Maid of Orleans. I have heard accounts told by people who were not there, those who were either too young or too cowardly to have fought in that terrible war. I have listened to their boasts and their lies, and never once was I tempted to question them, to call them liars. Perhaps I should have.
I know what happened on that day, the last day of May, in the Year of Our Lord, 1431 in Rouen. I was there.
-From the last will and testament of William of York, this day, the 13th day of October 1481.
William followed a trail of devestation. through the narrow, filthy streets. Scores of English footsoldiers and archers lay on the ground. A knight in armor had been flattened into the muddy road, the steel plate dented with the impression of the horse's hooves. Another knight in chainmail lay crumpled in an akward heap against a broken door, the metal links sliced apart, torn like cloth. A huge German mercenary sat in a dirty pool of water, his face the color of parchment. He was holding the stump of a shattered sword in both hands; the remaining chunk of metal lay half buried between his feet.
William rounded a corner and suddenly found himself in the town square. Hundreds of people had crowded into the Vieux-Marche in Rouen earlier that day to watch the execution. Guards armed with staves and sticks had kept them away from the huge funeral pyre, while more soldiers patrolled the mob, looking for trouble makers. There were archers on the roofs of the surrounding buildings, and mounted knights in the side streets. And despite the terrible event that was about to take place, there had been a carnival atmosphere, with jugglers and minstrels, food vendors and poets moving through the crowd.
Now it was chaos. Up to that moment, William had wanted to believe that the girl on the black horse was human. Now he knew she was not.
The armored horse carved a path through the mob, right up to the tall pillar in the center of the square. Joan was tied to the pillar, and stood, eyes close, faced turned to the sky as Geoffroy Therage, the executioner, piled tall bundles of fire-dry wood around her. The fire had been lit, and crackling flames and twisting black smoke were curling around the girl. Her clothes had started to smolder. The red-haired warrior leapt of her horse and sliced her way through the soldiers, her curved swords blurring so fast, that they reflected morning light until it as if they blazed.
William saw the Frenchwoman open her eyes and look down. And then her face lit up with a brilliant smile. He saw her lips move and formed a single word, a name. Later, much, much later, Geoffroy Therage told him she had said the word "Scathach".