The soldiers rode through the villages announcing recent events as if the lives of some were nothing more than a story.
The shock was fresh, and still the ashes had been discarded weeks before the news arrived. When she watched her own child leave to become a soldier, Isabelle had known it might be the last kiss she would bestow upon her lovely baby.
Isabelle had shed many tears of joy at the birth of her child, so many that the little one's flesh was wet with them. Her child grew stronger than the others. Soon a soldier's uniform draped over that child at the dawn of adulthood. War made many things necessary. Even death became necessary.
In a tribute to Isabelle's disbelief at the news, she shed no tears at the word of her child's death. It wasn't in battle where her baby died. If her sweet one fell there, then the honor and dignity would have allowed the tears to spring from her eyes to signal a noble end.
No, her lovely one was executed as a traitor, but not a traitor to country, which would have made her blush with shame, Instead, the claim was her child was a traitor to the faith, and this left Isabelle no recourse that tears might brush aside.
In the harrowing fire the soldier met her end, but would not to the fire of hell, of that Isabelle knew her sweet one would never enter. Death came with a court order to end a life by flames.
The fire of shame Isabelle's daughter was condemned to endure began until the flames silenced her voices forever. Yet the Maid would not bear her suffering alone. Isabelle would bear it too. Her darling child was a warrior, but not of earth, for only heaven would capture her spirit.
To the end of the days of earth, Joan of Arc would be recalled in the tears which fell at each rain, and her own mother, Isabelle of Arc, would keep watch for the storm clouds that would recall the flames of judgment by unjust men.