TW: sexual assault

France, 1429

Ysanne Moreau tipped back her head and breathed in the smell of wildflowers. It wasn't the same smell that used to greet her whenever she left her family home back in Carcassonne, and she was strangely glad about that. It reminded her that she had shaken off her old life and forged a new one.

If only it hadn't taken Richart's death to get her here.

Not that she even knew where here was anymore.

Months had passed since her husband's life had been lost to war, and the absence of him was still a hollow ache in her chest, but she thought he would have been proud of her for choosing this path.

At twenty-three, still so young and beautiful, Ysanne had attracted a lot of attention from would-be suitors, almost before Richart was cold in the ground, and to the dismay of her parents, she had refused them all. As a widow, Ysanne enjoyed certain rights that she had not had as a wife, and she had no intention of giving up that freedom to become a wife again.

So she had left behind the home that Richart had built for her in Gascony, refused to return to Carcassonne, and had instead scandalised everyone by travelling France alone.

Even now, months later, Ysanne couldn't help laughing as she recalled the shocked expression on the faces of her parents, and her friends, most of whom had children by now.

"But isn't this the life you want?" one of them had hesitantly asked, smoothing her hands over the swell of her belly where her second child slept.

"I don't think it is, at least not at the moment," Ysanne had replied.

She'd always assumed she would be a mother because that's what women did. They got married, they had babies, whether they liked it or not, and Ysanne wasn't necessarily averse to that. During the first weeks of her marriage to Richart, she'd been terrified of becoming pregnant. She'd lost so many siblings in infancy, and seen her mother reduced to little more than a broodmare by a husband desperate for a son, and the thought of suffering through that herself made Ysanne feel sick.

But Richart had always talked so enthusiastically about the children they would have, and gradually, Ysanne's fears had faded and she'd started to wonder if maybe she could be a mother after all.

Then Richart died.

It wasn't just his death that had led Ysanne to realise there was more to this world than she had always thought.

It was Joan.

Ysanne had been raised to understand that her purpose in life was to take care of her husband and his home and to provide and raise as many male heirs as possible. Her desire to see more of the country she lived in didn't matter. Her yearning to learn to read didn't matter. None of those were necessary for someone whose place was in the home.

But Joan of Arc had changed everything.

France had been caught up in war for longer than Ysanne had been alive – she'd grown used to hearing horror-stories of sieges and slaughters – and then humiliating French losses had been suddenly reversed, thanks to a mere peasant girl.

Joan's role in life should have been the same as Ysanne's, but she trampled those expectations beneath the hooves of her horse as she rode into battle, and that had lit a fire in Ysanne's chest.

She had made Ysanne understand that she didn't have to follow the path that had been paved for her.

Ysanne paused to pick some berries growing from a nearby bush. She popped them into her mouth, and the tart flavour exploded across her tongue, making her smile. This wasn't the life she had imagined for herself, but she was freer now than she'd ever been.

Movement caught her eye, and her mood dimmed.

Two men stood further down the dusty path; they seemed to be talking to each other, but their eyes flicked to her in a way that made her skin prickle.

Ysanne wiped berry-juice on her skirts, suddenly nervous.

She'd seen those men before, a few hours ago when she passed through a small peasant village. She wasn't foolish enough to telegraph the fact that she came from nobility – she'd shed her silks and velvets for simple cotton dresses, and she was careful never to show too much money at one time – but they'd still watched her then and they were watching her now.

Ysanne started walking again, her heart beginning to thud.

The village was miles behind her now, and there was nothing around but the French countryside, and suddenly she realised just how alone she was.

She risked a glance over her shoulder. The men were still following her, faster now, and Ysanne's chest tightened with fear.

She slid her hand up her sleeve, pulling out the knife she kept there.

Should she run? Where to?

Maybe she was being paranoid. Maybe those men were simply walking the same path as she was. But the weight of their eyes on her felt like a warning, some primal instinct that she couldn't ignore.

She looked back again.

They were closer this time, and now they weren't even pretending not to stare. Ysanne swallowed.

They moved suddenly, as if the sight of her fear was a trigger, running towards her, their booted feet kicking up dust.

Ysanne couldn't outrun them.

Clutching her knife, she waited until they were almost upon her, then she clumsily lashed out. The blade nicked the taller man's chin, and he snarled. She took another swing but he grabbed her wrist, squeezing until she was sure he'd break bone. The knife fell from her fingers, and the man hit her, the back of his hand whipping across her face and knocking her to the ground.

Ysanne tasted blood.

She tried to get up, but the shorter man put his foot on her shoulder and shoved her back down.

"Did you have to mark up her face like that?" he said to his companion, crouching in front of Ysanne and grabbing her chin with hard fingers, forcing her to look at him.

The taller man grinned, sharp and cold as a blade. "It's not her face I'm interested in."

The short man roughly lifted Ysanne's hand and pulled off the two rings she wore, before rummaging in her clothes for the bag of money she had hidden there. The tall man picked up the knife, turning it over and over in his hands, his eyes never leaving Ysanne.

The short man let out a crow of delight as he found Ysanne's money and held the bag aloft, shaking it and listening to the jingle of coins.

"We'll eat well tonight," he declared.

"I've got an appetite that needs satisfying now," the tall man said, stepping closer, and hitching one thumb in the waistband of his trousers.

"What do you – oh." The short man looked from his friend to Ysanne, then shrugged. "Suit yourself. But I'm not waiting for you."

"You don't want a turn?"

The short man shook his head, avoiding Ysanne's eyes.

He stood up, moving away from Ysanne as his friend moved closer. The tall man's eyes glittered with violent hunger, and Ysanne's blood ran cold. Scrambling to her feet, she tried to run, but he was so much faster. He knocked her to the ground again, and roughly rolled her onto her back, pinning her down. He was horribly strong.

Tears gathered in Ysanne's eyes. "Please," she begged. "Don't do this."

"Shut up."

"Please –"

He clapped a hand over her mouth, and she bit his fingers until he roared with pain and hit her again. Blood flooded into her mouth.

The short man was walking away, counting the bag of money he had stolen from Ysanne, leaving his friend to steal something much more important.

The tall man's breath rasped in his throat as he fumbled with her skirts, and she fought with everything she had, but he was too strong. His fingers found her, rough and invasive, and Ysanne screamed.

A shadow fell across them.

A woman had appeared from nowhere, dressed all in black and striding towards them. Ysanne's attacker looked up, and the woman grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off Ysanne as if he weighed nothing. She made a quick motion with her wrist, and a horrible crack echoed around the still air. The man's head lolled on his neck, and the strange woman dropped him into a heap on the ground.

For the longest moment, Ysanne couldn't move. Her breath came in shaky gasps, and her heart felt like it was going to punch through her chest.

The woman in black didn't move, and slowly Ysanne sat up, pushing her skirts back down.

"Are you alright?" the woman asked.

"No," Ysanne whispered, tears streaming down her face.

The woman crouched next to her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry I wasn't quicker."

"You killed him."

The woman's eyes hardened. "I have no mercy for rapists."

Suddenly Ysanne couldn't breathe. He'd come so close . . . if this woman hadn't been here . . .

"Hush, you're safe now," the woman murmured, gathering Ysanne into her arms and holding her while she sobbed through the terror and the rage.

After a while, Ysanne pushed her away, scrubbing the tears from her face. "You killed him with one hand. How did you do that?"

The woman went very still.

She was older than Ysanne – her dark hair was threaded with grey, but her face was unlined, and her eyes seemed impossibly old.

"You should forget what you saw here today," she said, and rose to leave.

Ysanne threw herself in front of the woman. "Who are you?" Her heart stuttered. "You're not . . . are you Joan of Arc?"

The woman laughed, a deep, rich sound. "Considering how much older I am than Joan, I find that rather flattering."

Ysanne flushed.

Joan was the one who'd set her on this path, but she'd never actually seen the woman. She had no idea what she looked like, but she imagined a mighty warrior, taller and broader than any man.

The woman's face softened. "My name is Agnes."

"How are you so strong?"

A pause.

"Because I'm not human."

She waited, watching Ysanne for her reaction, and Ysanne set her jaw and looked determinedly back. "Then what are you?"

Agnes smiled a little. "I'm a vampire."

Standing on a dusty, rural path in the middle of nowhere, next to the cooling body of the man who had assaulted her, Ysanne learned about the red-eyed creatures who lived in the shadows and drank the blood of humans.

And her whole world changed.

When Richart died, she hadn't known what she was going, only that she wanted to travel. What waited for her later on was still a mystery. Now it was as if a bright beam of light had fallen onto a new path.

"How do you become a vampire?" she asked.

Agnes narrowed her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

"Because I want to be one."

"Don't be foolish," said Agnes at once.

"I'm not. I want this."

"You don't know what you want."

Anger sparked.

"I want what you have – that strength and power. I want to travel this world with nothing standing in my way. I want to strike my own fear across the face and watch it fall to the ground. Please, Agnes, give me this."

Agnes laid a hand on Ysanne's cheek. "You don't know what you're asking. A vampire's life is a long, lonely, difficult thing, and you haven't lived enough of your own to know if you truly want to give it up for a vampire one."

"Yes, I have," said Ysanne stubbornly.

Agnes tilted her head, unconvinced.

"Please," Ysanne said again, clutching Agnes's hand.

The vampire was quiet for a few minutes. "I will not turn you now."

"But –"

Agnes put a finger to Ysanne's lips to silence her. "That does not mean I will never turn you. I would like you to go and see more of the world, to experience more of life as a human and think about what you really want. Do you see those hills over there?" She pointed. "I have a small house at the foot of those hills. When you absolutely know what you want, come and find me there."

Ysanne nodded. "I will."

That was the last she saw of Agnes for two years.

She did as the vampire asked, and continued to travel, although this time she employed guards to protect her on the road. Away from her noble upbringing, she learned more about her country than she'd thought possible – witnessing the horrors of the ongoing war, the poverty that so many lived in – and it only made her more aware of how fragile human lives were. Agnes had warned her that vampires' lives were hard, but she seemed to have forgotten how hard it was for humans too, in a different way.

It was while she was travelling that she learned Joan of Arc had been captured by the English. They planned to execute her for heresy.

Ysanne imagined rescuing her. She could return to Agnes, become a vampire, then storm Joan's prison and rescue the woman who had done so much for her country. But even vampires had their limits. There was nothing that Ysanne could do.

Except see Joan for the first and last time.

She travelled to Rouen, then under control of the English, and stood a short distance from the stake where Joan was to burn, watching, waiting.

Her heart seemed to stop beating when Joan was finally brought out. All this time, Ysanne had imagined a giant of a woman, someone so much more than ordinary people, but . . . she was just a girl, younger than Ysanne herself. In any other situation, Ysanne wouldn't even have noticed her.

But she held her head high as her captors led her to the stake, bound her to it, and when she instructed the priest to hold a crucifix high so she could see it as the pyre was lit, her voice didn't waver.

She never once looked in Ysanne's direction.

As the flames took hold, she shouted prayers, louder than the roar of the fire, and Ysanne didn't want to watch this, but she refused to look away. Joan didn't know her, wasn't even aware that Ysanne was there, but she had done so much to save France, and she had inspired Ysanne even though she'd never know it, and Ysanne couldn't bear the thought of her dying alone.

So she watched the flames rage, and breathed in the sickly-sweet stench of charring flesh, and heard Joan's final cry of "Jesus!" before she lost consciousness and the fire ate her up.

Ysanne's eyes burned with tears, both from grief and smoke, but she didn't look away, not once.

When it was over, she knew that she had taken enough time to think over what Agnes had said. Never again would she be at the mercy of humans.

She'd made her choice.

Part 1/2