Page 17 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Is this real, or is this my imagination?

I step forward again and quickly flip past the first ruined entries. Too much is illegible through the devastation caused by the writing on the first page. That means that the first line must have been important. Surely.

Before I know it, I’m sitting on the dusty floor and tilting the book toward the light to read the handwritten scrawl.

February 12, 1429

My Lord, they have cut my hair and dressed me as a boy.

The Sisterhood taught that a Sinner must use any disguise, but the weight of this deception is heavy. I feel a fraud. The soldiers I ride with see a holy mascot, not a warrior, and perhaps they are right. How can a vessel so plain, so unworthy, be chosen to carry the will of Heaven?

I see now that this war is not only against the English, but against the pride of men who cannot bear to see Your power in the vessel of a girl. Every night I pray I am strong enough not to shatter from this famine in my soul.

One thought keeps me afloat. They do not know the true war we fight is in the shadows. They cannot see the demons that I do.

If the voices are correct, and this holy sword is where they tell me, then I will mark it so to remind myself that it is my cross to bear.

May 8, 1429

Orléans is free. The men sing my name, calling me La Pucelle. They speak of miracles.

They saw only a girl with a banner, leading the charge.

They did not see what I saw at the heart of the fortress—the hulking shadow, the whispers of rot that clung to the English commander.

They did not see the holy fire that erupted from my blade to purify him.

The Sisterhood was right. The greatest battles must be fought in secret, even when in plain sight. The sword’s work is for God’s eyes only.

June 19, 1429

Another victory. The English fear me now; they call me witch. My commanders, Dunois and Alençon, finally listen to my counsel. They think my strategies are my own, but it is the voices that guide my hand.

The sword feels lighter with every righteous blow.

I am God’s hammer, and I was born for this.

But a sliver of fear remains. It is easy to be a hammer. It is harder to remember you are also a vessel, and vessels can break.

July 18, 1429

Charles is King. The crown is upon his head at Reims, as God willed. My mission, as I told the world, is complete. But last night, the voices whispered a new truth: this was only the beginning.

Crowning a king is a worldly matter. The true war is against the darkness that seeks to unmake the world.

I feel a great weariness in my bones. I wish to go home to my mother and spin wool, but I know my path leads elsewhere.

Seven

Mercy

Ican’t stop reading about a young woman’s life in medieval France. I even grab the sword once or twice, but sadly, no flames erupt. It’s possible it’s not real. Stranger things have happened. It’s also possible that Joan was insane. Still, something keeps me going.

The only sounds are the buzz of a distant fly, the flip of a page, and the occasional hiss of my own breath.

Until the door clicks open.

My fingers freeze around the journal. I don’t even breathe. Every ounce of my attention watches the shadowed figure as he slips inside the reliquary. He doesn’t bother with the lights, but I know that swagger. I know those broad shoulders, form-fitting black clericals, and tattooed hands.