MeritLevel

This really isn't that good. I know that. I'd like to know ways to make it better


A soft breeze barely rustled the grass in Narcote Village, the bright sun giving the crisp day an illusion of warmth. Even the castle on Addinell Hill seemed to smile upon the town, though its smile was a smirk of smug superiority.
Perhaps it was just because Spring had come at last, to put an end to the dreary days of the past winter, but there was something in the air, that day, that made Narcote Village bustle with life.


Young Constance Milborrow ran around the field outside her cottage. Her mother, Mavis, watched the girl play, lost in thought. These thoughts were mostly of her husband, Rycroft. She hoped he was clashing swords on a battlefield, his life in constant and imminent danger. That way, at least, he had a change of coming home to their daughter. And to her.
She glanced up towards the castle on Addinell Hill, wondering at the nerve of the King. He had a son, she knew, who was just a year older than Constance. Yet he would still send men out to wage a war that he didn't have the courage to fight in, himself. Didn't he realize that those men had wives and children, too?
Mavis shook her head to get thoughts of Rycroft from her mind, and peered out in the paddock, to watch her daughter play.


When the grass had been cut, someone had missed a patch in the corner of the field. That's where Constance sat. She was the only one who ever went there. In fact, the eerie howling of even the slightest wind through the scratchy blades deterred everyone except the young girl from visiting the spot. Mavis frowned a little as her daughter sat there, laughing and chattering to herself. She knew there was no way her daughter could be involved in anything unfavorable, but her behavior was still unnatural.
“Constance!” She called out, but the young girl didn't respond, she just kept babbling into thin air.
“Mavis!” Upon hearing her name, Mavis turned to see one of her friends.
“Sybil, how are you?” She smiled at the woman, brushing off her worries about her daughter. After all, she was raising Constance to be a good Christian girl, what was the worst that could happen?
“A bit shaken, actually. William Osmer has made an allegation of witchcraft!”
“What?” Mavis' shock was evident in her voice. William Osmer was a young politician who travelled from village to village, looking for women who partook in the Devil's work. When he came to Narcote, no-one thought there would be any accusations made. “Who is it? What will happen to them?”
Sybil lowered her voice to a whisper, before responding, “It was Wilfreda Seavers!”
“No!” Mavis was aghast, “Constance plays with her daughter! She lives just down the street! Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure. Orval was called out to a meeting last night, where it was announced. It was meant to be kept quiet for a bit, but, of course, he told me as soon as he got home. Most of the men will have told their wives by now. Osmer is deluded if he thinks this won't get out.”
Mavis had to agree with that. Gossip spread quickly around small towns like Narcote.
“What will happen to Wilfreda?” She asked, not really wanting to know the answer.
“A trial. Then, if she is found guilty...” Sybil's voice trailed off. She didn't need to say what would happen if Wilfreda were found guilty. Everyone knew what happened to those found guilty of witchcraft.
“What about Bridget?”
“Her daughter? She wasn't mentioned. She'll probably be sent to the castle as a slave, though. The King likes all the free labor he can get.”
The idea of such a young girl being sold off disgusted Mavis, but other worries were predominant in her mind. “So, they don't think Bridget is a... a witch... as well?”
“Goodness, no! The girl's only 5!” Sybil seemed shocked at the very suggestion, “Oh, Mavis... Are you worried about Constance?”
“No, she's never been around Wilfreda, without me there. You know, I've always thought there was something funny about that woman.” Mavis smiled as she gossiped to Sybil about Wilfreda Seavers's queer behavior, pushing thoughts of Constance's weird behavior to the back of her mind. After all, there was no need for them to be there. Constance was going to grow up following the Lord's path.


* * *


“Scitte!” Wilfreda Seavers swore, peering out her window at the coming night. Despite how nice the weather had been, this first day of Spring, she had spent the day inside, playing with her young daughter. She knew that the village would have been talking about her, and she didn't want to be taken to court the moment that she set foot out of her home. She wanted to spend as much time with Bridget as possible, before the inevitable happened. But now, it was twilight. And under the cover of darkness, William Osmer could tear her from her daughter without making a scene about it.


She had known that rumours about her would draw the attention of the witch-hunter. So, yesterday, when she heard word that he was coming to inspect her, she sent Bridget down the lane to play with Constance Milborrow. Bridget didn't need to see what would happen, when he came.
Sure enough, just an hour after Bridget went away, when Wilfreda was watering a plant on her windowsill, she heard three taps on the door. Quick, consecutive and purposeful knocks.
She opened her home to the man who sought the destruction of her world, and stood silently as William Osmer and his men searched her home. She didn't show any outward emotion, but winced inwardly when he came across her herbs, and when he flipped through her books. Regardless of any excuses she gave him for the items, she knew he had found enough evidence to convict her of paganism.
Then he turned to her, and spoke, “Mrs. Seavers, would you consider yourself an educated woman?”
Wilfreda stayed silent.
“No? Then how would you explain the books here?” Wilfreda could hear a smirk in his voice, as though he knew he would win any verbal banter between them. She knew he would, too.
“My husband's.” She said, knowing her words meant little.
“They look like they've been read recently?” He spoke with a mocking lilt.
“I like to look through them and think of him.” She wouldn't meet Osmer's eyes.
“So you have no idea what is written in them?”
“None at all.” Wilfreda lifted her head and glared straight into William Osmer's eyes. They were grey like stones, and held about as much emotion as one.
“I shall humour you, Mrs. Seavers, at least for now. Where is this husband you miss so much? Why is he not here to support you and your young daughter?”
“He is fighting in a war for the same King you serve. Why do you not have a wife, Mr. Osmer?” Anger dripped off Wilfreda's tongue and oozed from her seething words. Osmer had no right to talk to her about her husband. He should have been fighting alongside him, but because he had the power to point his finger at a woman and cry 'witch', he didn't have to.
“Mrs. Seavers,” Osmer smiled, his voice silky. “I hasten to remind you that it is not I that is suspected of practicing paganism.”
He went on to question Wilfreda about the herbs he found, and she gave feeble responses to all the questions he asked, both of them knowing that the questioning process would not change her condemnation. Then he stripped her down, to complete his search. Throughout the whole ordeal, she just prayed that Bridget didn't come home.


Now she knew he was coming back. Darkness had almost completely shrouded her cottage, and that knock on her door would come again, at any moment.
She picked up the letter she'd written for her husband, and buried it in the soil of the pot-plant on her windowsill. He'd know where to find it. She could imagine him coming home and hearing the gossip about her. Wondering what had happened, then finding out. Unearthing her letter.
Crying.
That is, if he ever made it back from the battlefield.
“Mama, what are you doing?” Wilfreda heard Bridget's voice from where she stood in the doorway, watching her mother pat down the soil on her pot-plant.
“Bridget, go back to bed.” Wilfreda didn't want to look at her daughter, tears already welling in her eyes.
“What's wrong, Mama?” There was a quiver in the girl's voice. Wilfreda wanted to lie, but she couldn't bring herself to. Instead, she walked over to her Bridget, lifted the girl's chin up, and surveyed her daughter's face. She brushed the girl's blonde hair away from pure, untainted features, and looked into her deep brown eyes.
“Lord, I don't know how to say this-”
“Don't blaspheme, Ma.” Bridget interrupted.
“I know, I shouldn't. I've done that too much lately, and because of that, I've got in trouble, sweet.”
“Big trouble?” Worry flared in Bridget's eyes.
“Yes, big trouble. I have to go away because of that trouble.” Wilfreda's insides churned as she told her daughter of the inevitable.
“When will you come back?” The girl was almost crying.
“I might not. I probably won't.”
“Will they kill you?” Bridget began to sob.
“Yes, they might, sweet. And if they do, they'll send you away. But you can't let that make you too sad. You need to follow your heart, and do what you want. Don't let anyone tell you what to do, OK?”
Wilfreda felt tears slide down her cheeks as she watched her daughter nod. She drew the girl's shaking frame close to hers, and savoured the embrace as long as she could.
“Go to bed now, hon. I don't want you to be here when they come get me.”
As Bridget left Wilfreda's arms, the woman knew that that was the last time she would get to hold her daughter. She stood, and glancing out the window, saw them coming to get her. She wiped tears from her eyes, and straightened her posture. At least, she knew, she would be standing proud when she was arrested.
Three raps came on the door. How could a sound Wilfreda had heard only once before sound so familiar?

Ilasir Maroa

I would say that this was not badly written. It has much room for improvement, though. What is in red are thoughts and suggestions, not criticisms, but I mean them all honestly.

Overall, I would say that I am not very engaged by the conflict, though of course, it's early in the story. We seem to have head-hopped a lot, so maybe that eased the tension some. This seems to be in third omniscient, which I would say is not the best for beginners, though I can't know for sure that you are one. I think this might be stronger written from a single third person limited on the part of Mavis.

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My hopeful book: Crap! Haven't posted it anywhere yet, darn!

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