Divine Heretic

by Jaime Lee Moyer

Genres: Fantasy; Historical Fantasy

Synopsis

Everyone knows the story of Joan of Arc, a peasant girl who put Charles VII on the throne - before being burned by the English as a heretic and witch. But things are not always as they appear. Jeanne d'Arc was only five when three angels and saints first came to her. Shrouded by a halo of heavenly light, she believed their claim to be holy. The Archangel Michael and Saint Margaret told her she was the foretold Warrior Maid of Lorraine, fated to free France and put a king upon his throne. Saint Catherine made her promise to obey their commands and embrace her destiny; the three saints would guide her every step. Jeanne bound herself to these creatures without knowing what she'd done. As she got older, Jeanne grew to mistrust and fear the voices, and they didn't hesitate to punish her cruelly for disobedience. She quickly learned that their cherished prophecy was more important than the girl expected to make it come true. Jeanne is only a shepherd's daughter, not the Warrior Maid of the prophecy, but she is stubborn and rebellious, and finds ways to avoid doing - and being - what these creatures want. Resistance has a terrifying price, but Jeanne is determined to fight for the life she wants. But when the cost grows too high, Jeanne will risk everything to save her brother, her one true friend and the man she loves. Not everyone is destined to be a hero. Sometimes you have no choice.

Release date: August 20, 2020

Publisher: Jo Fletcher Books

Print pages: 312

Sample

Prologue

Before the creatures who claimed to be angels spoke to me, I’d thought their visit was a sign of God’s favour, but I was only a little more than five. I was still innocent and believed all my grand-mère’s stories were true.

Mama had sent me out to collect twigs and small branches for the fire, a task even a child my age could do easily. Two of Papa’s older black-and-white herd dogs guarded me, their ears up listening to every sound and bright blue eyes watching the trees. Anytime I took more than a few steps towards the dryads’ grove, they herded me onto the path again. The box mounted on my small sledge was nearly full when I started back to the house.

A thin crust of snow crunched underfoot as I trudged towards home, but the weather had warmed enough that parts of the path were more bog than solid ground. Getting the sledge over those patches without spilling all the wood I’d collected was hard. Once, the box did tip too far, and I was near tears before I got the sledge righted and the wood back inside. The dogs stayed close, nervous and watchful as the sun dipped low, and twilight made the tree shadows creep over the path. I hurried as quick as I could, knowing Mama would worry if I was gone much longer and send my oldest brother, Henri, to find me.

The curve in the path ahead meant I didn’t have far to go. I whispered a prayer of thanks to Holy Mary, just as Grand-mère Marie had taught me, and pulled my shawl tighter. As the sun set, the wind picked up and the air got colder. I kept going, too stubborn to abandon the sledge and send my older brothers out to bring it the rest of the way, or leave the task half-done. Mama would fuss and rub warmth back into my fingers once I got inside the house, but Papa would be proud I’d finished what I started.

Both dogs growled as we neared the curve, the sound fierce and menacing, and the biggest dog, Luc, herded me back a few steps. Remi, the smaller dog, stood in front of us, seeming to bark at air. A great light bloomed in the middle of the path, bright as the midday summer sun, blinding me and filling my eyes with tears. The dogs whimpered once and were silent. When I could see again, Papa’s dogs were sprawled on the ground, still and unmoving. I wasn’t sure Luc or Remi were breathing, and that frightened me.

Three blazing lights stood in front of me, each one vaguely man-shaped and all of them taller than my father. All I could think of were Grand-mère’s stories of angels. Picturing graceful white wings rising up and behind the creatures confronting me was easy. The light was brightest where their faces should be, but some of the stories I’d heard said angels’ faces were too beautiful and terrible to look upon. I couldn’t imagine another reason why angels would hide their faces – but I’d never thought one of God’s messengers would come to me.

I dropped to my knees near Luc, trembling with more than cold, and waited for them to speak.

‘Jeanne d’Arc, God has chosen you to free France and win a king his crown!’ His voice rang with thunder and raging winds, scaring me more. ‘You have a great destiny to fulfil as the Maid of Lorraine. You will lead a mighty army and drive the English out of France forever!’

Little girls didn’t lead armies. I’d listened to enough of the old men’s stories they told on market days to know that armies were led by kings and dukes, not peasant girls. Confused, and wondering why an angel would lie, I stared at his light and didn’t say anything.

The light at his right hand spoke next, her voice full of ice and the return of winter. ‘You’ve been chosen for a great task, but take heart, the prophecy says you won’t battle France’s foes alone! Pledge to obey us, Jeanne, and Saint Michael will teach you to fight and be a fearsome warrior. You need to be ready when the Maid’s sword comes to you.’

‘Fate has chosen you to be the Maid, Jeanne d’Arc!’ The third voice was full of pealing bells, but I thought she sounded a little sad. ‘You’ve no choice but to embrace your destiny. The sword will remain hidden until the glorious day you travel with the Dauphin. Do your duty for France and give Blessed Catherine your pledge to obey.’

Papa’s voice came from further down the path, shattering the need to answer without asking questions or taking the time to think. Lantern-light marked how far my father had come searching for me. I scrambled away from the angels on hands and knees, closer to the sledge and the dogs. An icy wind ruffled their fur, but Luc and Remi still hadn’t moved.

Tears slipped down my face as I thought of telling Papa how his dogs had died. He wouldn’t believe an angel had struck them dead.

‘No,’ I whispered. ‘My grand-mère says I always have a choice between right and wrong, and I don’t know which this is. I won’t promise until I talk to her.’

Saint Michael grew taller and the thunder in his voice grew deeper, louder. ‘Remind Marie of the promise she made to us and think hard about making the same pledge. You can’t escape your destiny, Jeanne d’Arc. You are the Maid.’

Their light flared, blinding me again, and the three angels were gone. I buried my face in Luc’s fur, horrified at how cold and still he was, and cried.

Papa scooped me up an instant later, holding me tight and safe even if his hands shook. ‘Shhhhh, little one, don’t cry. I’ve got you now, Jeanne. I’ve got you.’

My second-oldest brother, Pierre, bent over the smaller dog, running his hands over Remi’s side and face. He wiped a hand over his eyes before looking at our father and shaking his head.

I buried my face in Papa’s shoulder, trembling with fear and cold. Dogs were loving and innocent creatures, free of sin. I couldn’t understand why God’s angels would strike them dead for trying to protect me.

‘Let’s get you home, little bird.’ Papa pulled his heavy cloak around me and kissed my forehead. ‘Mama and Grand-mère will be anxious to see you. Pierre, carry the lantern for me. Henri and I will come back for the sledge later.’

Pierre walked a few steps ahead, lighting the way. Our father carried me home in silence, the crunch of his boots on the ice-crusted snow the loudest sound to break the quiet.

My mother and Grand-mère made up for Papa’s silence when he brought me inside. Mama cried, ran her hands over my arms and legs and asked if I was all right over and over again. Grand-mère prayed and loudly thanked God for bringing me home safe. Pierre sat at the long family table, watching me silently.

Papa said a quiet word to Mama, touched her face and went out the door with Henri. He’d said they’d bring the sledge back, but I knew he’d bring his dogs back too. My father wouldn’t leave them for the scavengers or let them go unburied.

My mother stopped crying not long after they left and set me on a bench near the fire to get warm. Pierre sat with me, rubbing warmth back into my fingers the way Mama always did. By the time Papa and Henri came inside again, my mother and grand-mère were nearly finished putting supper on the table. No one said much while we ate. After the dishes were washed, we went to bed early.

No one asked me what had happened or how the dogs died. That confused me until I heard Papa whisper to Mama in the dark loft, repeating stories about the Fae being pushed south by the war and what ill luck it was that I was in the wrong place when they’d passed our village. His next words were full of gratitude that the Fae had only taken the dogs. Grand-mère snored softly in the bed we shared near the hearth, at peace, her faith that God had brought me home safe unshaken.

I couldn’t find the courage to tell my parents the truth, or the will to wake Grand-mère Marie to ask if she’d promised to obey three sainted angels.

Not while three lights glimmered in the corner near the door, watching.

 

The angels appeared next when Grand-mère sent me out to feed the chickens late the next morning. Blessed Catherine gave me all their names again and demanded I pledge to obey them. Merciful Margaret tried to coax me into changing my mind about needing to talk with Grand-mère before making promises, while the Archangel Michael watched silently, his light brightest of all. They all frightened me, but Michael scared me most.

Fear and the churning in my stomach convinced me that something was wrong; angels shouldn’t terrify me or push me to make pledges I didn’t understand. I shook my head no, the only answer I could give, and ran back for the house.

I got used to Michael, Catherine and Margaret dogging my steps, being there when I fell asleep, still present when I woke. Most days they didn’t speak at all, just watched me, but winter lingered overlong in Domrémy that year and I spent most of my time inside with Mama. My family wasn’t as large as some, but I’d learned quickly that my voices stayed silent when my parents or my brothers were with me. Someone was almost always with me, a blessing.

A handful of weeks later, spring arrived in a rush. Snow melted away almost overnight, giving way to fuzzy patches of new grass and bright flowers. The apple tree near the sheep pens blossomed and all the trees in the dryads’ grove unfurled deep-green leaves, giving shelter to songbirds and their nestlings.

Staying inside grew harder as the sun shone brighter and the days warmed. Catherine and Margaret confronted me each time I stepped into the yard to feed the chickens or fetch wood for my mother, while the Archangel Michael stood back, silent and watchful. I prayed each night that these creatures would grow as weary of my refusing to obey as I was of saying no.

The last of the snow had melted when Papa and my brothers began opening the gates on the winter pen each morning, and with the help of our dogs took the flock to graze fresh pastures. I watched them leave the yard each day, the need to follow them an ache that wouldn’t stop. No matter how I begged to go along, my father said no.

‘Grow a little taller and you can come,’ Papa said. ‘The rams are all much bigger than you are, Jeanne, and even a few of the ewes top you by almost a head. Your mother would have a hard time forgiving me if you got hurt. I’d have a harder time forgiving myself.’

Mama rested a hand on my shoulder as we watched Papa and Pierre whistle up the dogs, and Henri helped get the herd moving. She leaned down and kissed my cheek before going inside. ‘Don’t be in such a rush, little one. You’ll spend all your days working soon enough. Enjoy the sunshine while you can, but don’t wander too far.’

After being inside all winter, Mama knew how much I longed to feel the sun on my face and run barefoot in the grass. I searched carefully for any glimmer of the voices’ light, prepared to stay with my mother if I saw them, but I didn’t find any sign they were near. A few instants later, I’d fetched the thick stick I pretended was a shepherd’s staff and hurried across the yard.

My mother hadn’t forbidden me from going to the dryads’ grove, so that’s where I went. The tree spirits slept all winter, but on a warm day like today, they would be awake and filling the clearing at the heart of the grove, as eager to run and play as I was. Best of all, I wouldn’t be alone and the voices wouldn’t speak to me.

I’d seen smiling faces in tree bark or looking down from the tops of trees since I was very small, when I left the house only in Mama or Papa’s arms. As I got older, the little tree guardians let me play chase with them or join in when they danced. They weren’t any bigger than I was now and I always left the grove breathless with laughter and running and wanting to go back.

Grand-mère was convinced playing games with the tiny guardians was sinful and they would lead me into wickedness. Papa had to tell her to stop scolding me each time I came home with flowers in my hair.

‘There’s nothing wicked in the grove, certainly nothing that will hurt her,’ he’d said, his tone stern. ‘Let her be, Mama. Jeanne won’t be a child for ever.’

The tree spirits rushed to meet me as I slipped between trees and ran into the grove. Two of them joined hands with me and we skipped around in a circle. All the rest formed a ring around us, singing. I couldn’t understand the words, but I laughed at the faces they made.

A clap of thunder stopped the singing and a painfully bright light flared. When I’d blinked away the dazzle in my eyes, all the tree spirits had fled to the safety of their trees. Michael, Catherine and Margaret were haloed with flame, fallen suns that drove back the shadows. Fire rippled up and down the sword the archangel held in front of him, wilting the leaves over his head. I wanted to run home too, just as the tree spirits had, and hide in my mother’s arms, but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak.

I was already afraid, but the thunder in Michael’s voice burned fear deep into my skin. ‘My sisters begged me to give you time, Jeanne. They said you were too young to understand duty or sacrifice but that you’d learn. My patience is at an end. The prophecy requires that you pledge to obey us and that you follow the path we show you. You’ve much to learn, but only you choose if the lessons are easy or hard.’

I blinked and Catherine’s light stood behind me. She gripped my shoulders, driving cold into my bones and filling me with dread, but I still struggled to get away.

‘You can’t escape destiny, Jeanne,’ she whispered in my ear. ‘Promise to obey all our commands and we will teach you to be a great warrior. Stop fighting and promise.’

I started to cry. Tears froze on my face and my teeth chattered, but I found the breath to answer, ‘No, this is wrong. I won’t promise! Let me go, you’re hurting me. Stop hurting me!’

Michael’s sword vanished. He cupped my face in his hands, cold burning my skin and fear spiking into my chest. I think he meant to hurt me, and didn’t care if Catherine hurt me too. Between them, my heart slowed as it turned to ice. I waited to shatter and be lost.

‘There is always a price to pay for defiance, Jeanne,’ Michael said, his words wrapped in thunder. ‘You are the Maid, La Pucelle, and others must pay the price in your place. Remember, you chose this lesson.’

Catherine held me fast when he let go and moved to stand in front of the nearest tree. He pushed his hand through the bark and deep into the tree, singing words that reminded me of Father Jakob’s prayers on Sunday. Michael yanked his hand out, clutching a weeping tree spirit.

His song grew louder, full of keening winds and the sound of lashing rain and hail, until the tempest in his voice filled the grove. The dryad’s tree froze and cracked, splitting down the middle and falling to the ground in pieces. I screamed as the tree spirit he held crumbled to dust and was carried away by the gale.

Twice more Michael pulled a tiny guardian from its tree while I screamed and cried, struggling against Catherine’s hold and begging him to stop.

He ignored me.

Margaret’s voice whispered in my head, her bells hushed and frozen lips moving against my ear. ‘He wants your pledge, Jeanne! Tell him you’ll do as he wants before he destroys the whole grove. Promise him!’

He was reaching towards another tree when I found my voice.

‘I promise, I promise,’ I screamed. ‘I’ll be good! I promise I’ll be good! Please don’t hurt them. Please!’

The creature named Michael turned to face me, silent and judging.

Catherine’s frozen fingers caressed my face. ‘You promise to obey, Jeanne? To bind yourself to the Dauphin’s cause and free France?’

I didn’t understand what she meant – but even sick to my stomach, shivering with fear and grief, I knew what Blessed Catherine wanted me to say.

‘I promise.’ She let go of me. I curled up on the grass at her feet and shut my eyes tight. ‘I promise.’

Emptiness filled me; the archangel and Blessed Catherine were gone. I could still see Margaret’s light even though my eyes were closed, but it appeared faded and dim, her voice sounding far away.

Fingers brushed my cheek, the icy touch so light I wasn’t sure I’d felt it. ‘Remember your promise, Jeanne. Remember how afraid of Michael you are this day, this moment, and be wary. He won’t hesitate to punish you again and you’re too young and weak to defy him. Being the Maid won’t be easy. Learn all you can as you grow older and grow strong. Survive.’

 

When I finally opened my eyes, I was curled up under the apple tree at home. A pile of young pups slept against my back, paws twitching as they dreamed of chasing butterflies and grasshoppers. Their mother kept watch over all of us, her head up and blue eyes missing nothing.

The yard was quiet without the sounds of sheep bleating in the pen or dogs barking. Papa and my brothers hadn’t come back yet. I hadn’t been gone long, no matter that it felt as if days had passed.

I rolled onto my back, searching for a sign the voices were nearby, but not a faint shimmer of their light showed. The place they’d filled inside was still empty as well.

One of the puppies woke, making scared little noises, and I helped it climb onto my chest. I put an arm around the pup and began to cry.

I was home and safe, if only for the moment. That didn’t erase the fear and grief welling inside, or make me forget the dryads’ screams as they turned to dust.

But I was only five, too young to cling to the horror of what I'd seen for long, and the spirits let my memory of the dyads fade. They never let me forget my promise.

 

The lamb bleated non-stop, a sound that made my heart race and thud against my ribs. I followed the cries and the growing stench overwhelming the normal stink of pigs and cow shit on a hot day. The smell kept getting stronger, threatening to gag me.

At the edge of the wash I stumbled over the ewe’s body. A gaping, bloody hole was all that was left of her belly and chest. An older carcase a few strides away was the source of the smell, but the ewe would stink as much by morning. Tracks circled the two dead sheep – more of the English army’s dogs. The dogs had eaten their fill, and moved on.

Gone for now didn’t mean gone for ever. The dogs and the soldiers might come back, or another group might come this way. Far too many hunting hounds followed the English soldiers, and rumour said their commanders didn’t hesitate to set the dogs on stray sheep. English soldiers slaughtered cattle for themselves, and their dogs ran down their own dinner of mutton. If the peasants starved, so be it.

That morning, my brother Pierre had chosen a grazing pasture we hadn’t visited in weeks. The field was called Shepherd’s Haven, a large pasture ringed with tumbled rocks and full of new spring grass. Hidden among the boulders were shrines dedicated to the shepherds’ guardian spirits and saints, one for each herding family in the village. Many had crumbled with disuse, abandoned by men afraid of Father Jakob’s disapproval, but my father and older brothers didn’t fear the village priest’s disapproval. Pierre and I left new offerings each time we brought the flock to graze.

I’d barely set the fresh offering in place before one of my voices, Margaret, sent a vision, showing me a pregnant ewe was missing and which way she’d wandered. After telling my brother, I set off to look for her. I’d been too late to save the ewe, but the constant bleating said the lamb was very much alive. We needed every newborn this season to replace what the English stole.

Picturing the mother placing herself between the pack and her lamb wasn’t hard – Papa’s sheep weren’t easy prey: he’d spent years working to make sure that was true. Ewes used their big, curling horns to defend themselves as often as the rams, so sheep who didn’t grow up to have horns were the first ones sold at market.

Old bone crunched underfoot as I moved away from the ewe’s body. Lynx, red fox and badger hunted in the valley and all kinds of prey found themselves driven to the edge of the wash and trapped. Rumours of a wolf pack had surfaced when sheep first started disappearing, but the stories quickly died.

Scuff marks showed me where the lamb had gone over the rim and slid down into the wash. Finding a way down I could manage without falling and that wouldn’t trap me was hard. I considered sliding down a clear section of the wash wall, the way the lamb had, but that left the problem of finding handholds to climb out again. Whatever I did, it needed to happen soon. The baby’s distress cries were more frantic and at the same time weaker.

The day was warm for early spring and growing warmer, making the smell of the dead sheep stronger. I fought back the need to retch and muttered a plea for help, hoping this time one of the spirits would answer. They didn’t always. Other times they said no and left me to wonder why.

They’d said no when I’d begged them to save my mother and refused to answer when I begged again, pleading to be told why they’d let Mama die. I’d feared and hated them since I was five. I hated them even more for letting my mother die.

‘Margaret, you told me where to look. Please help me find a way to save the lamb.’

A great light always heralded a visit from my voices and now it came near to blinding me, even at midday. When the brightness dimmed, Margaret spoke. ‘Keep searching, Jeanne. Look for a place where the wash narrows.’

Flowering bushes crowded the edge at the narrowest point and I almost went past the spot. Fat black bumblebees buzzed in my ears, all of them upset at being disturbed as I pushed between the branches to the edge. A small yet sturdy tree jutted from the side of the wash only a foot or so down, giving me a starting point for climbing. Rocks and thick gnarly roots jutted from the soil all the way to the bottom of the wash.

The gradual slope I saw was different from the straight drop. I was tall for thirteen, my hands strong from working with the sheep, as well as weaving and spinning. Picking out a way down, one where I didn’t have to stretch too far for handholds, or places to put my feet, got easier the longer I stared at the rocky wall. Even so, I’d need to be careful.

‘Thank you for your generosity, Margaret,’ I muttered.

I scrambled over the edge before I had time to lose my nerve. Getting to the bottom wasn’t easy. Twice I slipped and slid before I caught myself. A wasp’s nest clung to the wall a little over halfway down, its muddy shape and dull grey walls nearly invisible. The nest was out of the path I’d taken, but wasps buzzed and droned ominously. I scurried down the rest of the wall faster.

My arms shook and I was drenched with sweat by the time my feet touched the bottom of the shallow wash, but rest could come later. I wiped sweaty hands on my tunic and hurried to collect the lamb.

The lamb was only hours old, and it was desperate to be fed. All I had was the warm water left in my water bag, but I managed to drip some into the newborn’s mouth. That would have to do until I found a ewe willing to nurse an orphan. I tucked the baby deep into the sling I always carried and made sure it couldn’t wiggle out as I climbed. The bleating stopped right away, a blessing. I hurried back to the place where I’d climbed down.

Going up the side of the wash was easier than going down. I breathed a prayer of thanks as I reached the top. The voices’ light flared bright, making my eyes tear, and Margaret spoke again.

‘Tell your father what you found today and warn him the English grow bolder. Watch what your father does, Jeanne, and learn what you can when he arms himself. You’re an obedient daughter, but never forget you aren’t destined to be a shepherd’s wife. Do you remember everything the archangel told you?’

I wasn’t likely to forget, not when he’d told me again and again ever since he’d first appeared to me. Michael wasn’t a real archangel, but his face was too terrible and beautiful to look upon, just as the priest said an archangel should be. He always held a flaming sword up before me to make sure I paid attention. Where Margaret’s voice was wind-stirred church bells, Catherine’s ice and winter-bare branches, Michael’s was thunder and lashing winds. His voice always made me tremble head to foot. I never saw any of their faces – only the light – but confusing them with God’s angels and saints, no matter what they claimed or wanted me to believe, was equally impossible. There was nothing holy about these creatures.

‘I . . . I remember,’ I said. ‘Michael said Grand-mère was born to be the Maid before me, but Charles VI went mad and couldn’t be crowned. Now it’s my destiny to drive the English out of France . . . and I need to accept my fate and obey the way she did. I’ll lead a brave army, and put a king upon his throne. Others will doubt me and mock my cause, but I’m the . . . the Maid in the prophecy.’

The light pulsed brighter and in a frost-touched voice, Catherine said, ‘Not everyone will doubt. All of France knows the prophecy of the Maid of Lorraine and men will flock to your banner. But your path won’t be easy, Jeanne. Hold tight to the people who believe in you. We’ll tell you when the time is right to find the Dauphin.’

‘And will you teach me how to fight, and tell me what to do, Catherine?’ My voice trembled as hard as my hands and my heart pounded even faster with fear, but I needed to know. ‘I’m only a girl. My grand-mère taught me to spin and sew, how to help a ewe give birth and how to make bread. I’m expected to marry and have children of my own. That’s my life – my future. I know nothing of war.’

‘You’ll learn to fight,’ Margaret said. ‘The three of us will guide your every step. Now go home before Marie starts to worry. Tell your father to be ready to protect the village.’

The light flashed, making the midday sun look dim, and the emptiness inside said the voices were gone for now. They’d first come to me when I was innocent enough to believe when they claimed to be God’s angels and too young to think it strange when Catherine made me promise to obey them. She’d said obedience was God’s will, and that the Lord would bless me above all others.

I hadn’t felt blessed then, and I felt less so as I got older. The visions they forced on me of the war I was supposed to fight terrified me, while the idea of taking a life – any life – horrified me to the point I couldn’t speak.

My doubts about destiny, and the rebellious streak Grand-mère worked so hard to control, rushed in to replace fear. I slipped a hand into the sling to pet the sleeping lamb.

‘The Dauphin will be the first to mock me,’ I whispered. ‘I’m not a prophecy fulfilled, I’m a peasant girl. That’s all I’ll ever be.’

Thunder sounded in the distance and clouds crowded the horizon, a promise of rain before dark. I turned back the way I’d come and ran for home.

 

All but a few families in Domrémy herded sheep. The land far beyond Scholar’s Field and all the way to the village was kept free of fencing or stone walls by decree of the Lady of Lorraine. People had their garden plots, animal pens and small pieces of land near their cottages, but the land outside the village was open pasture for all of us to share. We had enough troubles with the English freely roaming our land and the lady didn’t want the peasants under her rule squabbling over good grazing land or locked gates.

Other than the streams winding towards the river, nothing blocked my path as I ran home. As our house came into view, I breathed a prayer of thanks I hadn’t run into trouble on the way.

My older brother, Pierre, had driven the flock back to the enclosed pasture near the house and now the beasts milled around inside as he filled troughs with water and hay. Normally we’d have stopped penning them overnight by early April, but the English dogs and nearby raids made Papa cautious. We’d already lost too many – if we lost the entire flock, that would set us back years.

We’d been fortunate the English had only taken a handful of cattle so far, but that was pure luck. The herd grazed the large pasture beyond the sheep, but we couldn’t keep them confined more than another day or two. Half the grass inside was eaten down to the roots, which meant every time it rained, the ground turned to mud, which was made worse by the cattle moving around in a fenced-off space. Each time, new growth took longer to sprout, and the number of bare spots increased. The land needed time to recover – and the cattle needed more food.

Shaggy black-and-white herd dogs sprawled outside the sheep pen, blue eyes bright and pink tongues lolling out the side of their mouths. Two of my favourite dogs trotted over and nosed the sling cradling the lamb, tails wagging. The tiny sheep woke, remembered her stomach and began to bleat non-stop.

Pierre heard and his head came up. Relief that I was home safe, disappointment at not seeing the ewe and resignation moved across his face rapidly. He went back to feeding the sheep we still had.

The dogs nosing the lamb slipped into the pen with me, keeping the flock from rushing out of the gate. I touched the protection charm hanging from the gatepost, a crude sheep-shaped figure woven from honey-soaked straw, and muttered thanks the ewes had delivered safely and we hadn’t lost any lambs. Tomorrow I’d burn the old charm, sending away the bad luck it had trapped, and hang a new one. For